Bohemia Village Voice

Christmas Present

“Stone me,” said Santa, glancing at his digital watch which could tell him the time in two hemispheres and at a depth of fifty metres, “where are those flipping toys?”
Nobody could have done more to streamline the elves’ production line. He had thrown out all the time-consuming wooden stuff and the metal toys which had cost him a fortune in compensation claims for sliced elves’ flesh.
They were all plastic now and could be assembled by a child of four. Or an elf. He ground out his roll-up and turned, almost falling over a small squat figure.
“What the hell are you doing there?” he growled at Bolshi the elf.
“I’ve come for a meeting with management,” chirped the workers’ representative.
“Where are the flipping toys?” said Santa.
“We can’t do it,” said Bolshi. “We can’t meet the deadline.”
Santa thrust his hands deep into his red pockets and tried to keep his temper.
“How long?” he asked.
The elf sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully.
“We could let you have The Falklands and Tierra del Fuego now,” he said.
“Good grief, I can’t go all the way down there just for them.”
“Supposing you did some of the poverty-stricken regions of South America on the same journey. We could bung them a load of stuff that Quality Control have rejected. They’ll be glad of anything they can get.”
Santa frowned. “We can’t do it,” he said, “it’s not on.”
“Why not?” said the elf.
“Amnesty International, that’s why not.” said Santa.
“If word got back to them we’d be finished. They’d flay us alive.”
“Amnesty International would?” said the elf doubtfully.
“Anyway,” said Santa, “it wouldn’t be Christian.”
Bolshi gave him a hard look.
“You’re not a Christian. You’re a pagan.”
Santa dealt him a smart blow behind the right ear with a piece of red plastic moulding and stepped back as the stunned elf fell.
Another advantage of plastic is that it leaves no marks on an elf. Santa strode off to continue negotiations with the rest of the work force.