Monday, 11 December 2017

Christmas Food :Misha Herwin



No, not the traditional turkey, goose, chicken, beef or pork. A pot full of golabki is one of the dishes we will be eating this Christmas Eve.
Because of my Polish family, my children were brought up celebrating both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  Which meant cooking two different meals.
On the night before Christmas we laid the table, putting wisps of hay, or straw under the cloth to remind us of Jesus in the manger. Then the youngest was set to look out for the first star, or that at least was the theory and it did give the kids something to do.
Once the star was sighted then Christmas could begin. First the baby Jesus was put in our homemade crib, then came the distribution of the oplatek. The thin wafer, like communion bread, that in those days was sent to us by our family in Poland. Each person took a piece and shared it with all the others, kissing them and wishing them a happy Christmas.
After that it was presents under the Christmas tree and finally when all the wrapping paper had been cleared up, the food.
Twelve different dishes, one for each of the disciples was the tradition. Some were British, like salad, or cooked chicken, others Polish like the pot full of cabbage wrapped parcels above.
Like a lot of traditional food much of this cooking is very time consuming. For golombki the cabbage leaves must first be blanched, filling the kitchen with steam while I am frying onions and mixing them together with cooked rice, minced pork, seasoning and herbs.
When the leave are soft enough, they are removed and laid out on a board to be filled and folded, a process which requires asbestos fingers. Then the golombki are layered into a casserole and I pour over a mixture of Heinz tomato soup, water, stock and tomato puree. Not quite what my grandmother would have done, but over the years we have evolved a truly fusion cuisine.
Everything goes into the oven for about an hour, or so while I tidy up and remember all those long gone Christmases and speculate whether my grandchildren will in years to come be wrapping cabbage leaves around handfuls of pork mixture and thinking back to their childhood.

Sunday, 10 December 2017

Christmas treats - Karen Bush

Coming up to Christmas I have a couple of books that I return to year after year. Like mince pies, mulled wine, and those seasonal TV repeats of Its A Wonderful Life, The Grinch, A Muppet Christmas Carol, and White Christmas, I am irresistibly drawn back to them ... No matter that I know them inside out, I still enjoy them just as much as the first time round. And if you are going to re-visit them, the run-up to Christmas is of course, the perfect time ...

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens - although I prefer listening to this one as an audiobook, and it makes a nice change from carols. And sometimes our local open air museum presents a wonderful reading by Mr Dickens himself ...

Doomsday Book by Connie Willis - a time travel piece set around Christmas and involving the Black Death ... sounds grim, but it's gripping stuff.

The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper - my favourite of Cooper's books, as well as the first one of hers I ever read. Captures perfectly for me those noisy, bustling family Christmases of my youth - plus it's a fabulous story!

And as a follow-up - as for some inexplicable reason it is never repeated - I watch a DVD of The Box of Delights: a much loved childhood book, and I fell in love with this series when it first aired on the BBC.

So what are your Christmas treats?



 
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(And here's one you might like to add to your Christmas reading lists ...)

Saturday, 9 December 2017

Forgive me, friends, I'm all wrote out... by Julia Jones



Thank you Claudia Myatt
for designing our logo
It was on this day, three years ago, that I published my first John's Campaign blog: John's Campaign and June's and 800,000 more.  I can't, this evening, find the words to describe all that has happened since. I am tempted to cheat and to refer you at once (here it is) to Nicci's anniversary evocation (published in the Observer) of the place we find ourselves now.  She sees us dancing in an open field, lonely at first, but soon joined by one brave soul and then another. It's not long before the whole field, the fair field full of folk, is alive with movement and that glorious release of creativity that comes from being an individual in a crowd when it's not you that matters, nor the other dancers, but the music that lifts and controls you all. I don't mean the Pied Piper of Hamelin or sirens luring sailors to their doom, this is a dance that transforms the place where you are. John's Campaign has unexpectedly become a movement. It's something people can use to do things that they already wanted to do.

I also wrote an anniversary article last week. Mine was necessarily different (I can't write like Nicci anyway) because its audience was different. My article was for the Health Service Journal, read, I am told by Chief Executives and Policy Makers. The HSJ editor has been kind to us (I think perhaps a relative of his was in an older person's ward earlier this year?) but one of the more unexpected lessons we have learned since 2014 is the relative impotence of CEOs, policymakers and other people with apparent power. 

The wisest of them know this. I remember our shock when Nicci and I first went to see England's Chief Nurse and the NHS England Patient Experience team -- truly good people. They saw our point and understood what we wanted but declined to wave their magic wands of Power. They told us that they'd had enough of ordering people to stand up and dance to a particular tune. It had so often led to trouble -- the law of unintended consequences. Try a policy of protecting mealtimes so that patients are not disturbed by medics wanting to come and stick needles in them - and what happens? inadvertently you have created a situation where Mrs Jones's anxious daughter, who has travelled miles to visit her ailing Mum, is not "allowed" to remain by the bedside while lunch is being served, despite the fact that her mother then spends the "protected" period spitting her food in well-directed arcs around the cubicle because she's convinced the healthcare assistant is trying to poison her. If our campaign was to succeed, said these sadly-experienced policy-makers, people had to want to stand up and dance with us.

And they have. In all four countries of the UK there has been one single nurse, perhaps with a team supporting her, who has stepped forward, pointed their toes, stretched out their arms and (as my children would say) begun to "throw shapes". 

Jo is second from right, next to Nicci
Thank you, Jo James, lead dementia nurse at Imperial College Healthcare NHS Trust in London, for committing yourself and your team to take as long as was needed to stick CARERS WELCOME posters on every single ward door in your immense metropolitan hospitals. 

Thank you, Karen Wilson, senior charge nurse of Ward 12 Wishaw General Hospital in Lanarkshire, for getting in touch via facebook to say that you and your colleagues always welcomed carers but you had decided to formalise your welcome, so you too would be sticking up a poster.  (And thank you, Andy Pender, in the Emergency Admissions Unit of the same hospital, for emailing a week later to say that you hadn't been routinely keeping people together with their family members but you'd seen this was causing distress and you were going to use our campaign to change your ways of working.)

Delyth, in blue, holds a "pasport gofalwr"
Diolch, Delyth Fon Thomas, acute dementia nurse specialist and prevention of delirium facilitator, in Glaslyn ward, Ysbyty Gwynedd for welcoming our campaign to Wales and acclimatising it as Ymgyrch John. 

Thank you, Paula Thompson of Downe dementia ward, Downpatrick, Northern Ireland for using John's Campaign as part of a variety of measures to ensure that patients on your mental health ward (several of whom are detained compulsorily) have the best quality of life, physically and emotionally, until the end of their days, if they reach that moment while in your care. 

There are so many others -- Dr Natasha Lord, the first clinical psychologist to pledge support in her mental health wards, Dr David Oliver, practicing geriatrician and eminent member of societies, Sharon Thomson, manager of the Moat House in Essex, who was persuaded to be the first English Care Home manager to join us.  Truly the list could go on as ward managers and directors of nursing, charity chiefs and carer liaison workers began linking arms and twirling to the tune. Not our tune, you understand, but the tune that we began hearing together, a human tune that was in our hearts all along. All that Nicci and I did, three years ago, was give it a name. 

We didn't ask people to paint birds on their ceilings so people lying on trolleys would have something to look at "for John's Campaign". We didn't insist that they sit in their offices every Monday evening offering carers support "for John's Campaign". Neither did we ask for comfort packs to be supplied, camp-beds purchased, family rooms re-decorated, car-parking fees reduced "for John's Campaign". Yet all these things have happened in many different places.

When I began writing this post this evening I felt I had no more words to offer. Currently we are making another effort to persuade the people with power that they do want to affirm the actions that have already been taken by others. This is for the obvious reasons of equality and continuity -- and retirement. We want to be able to go off and rub our blisters (or return to different forms of writing) knowing that it is safe for others to carry on, encouraged and applauded. So, today, I'd spent most of my time writing "persuasive" letters (as they teach you in GCSE Eng lang). It felt pointless and sterile but I'd set myself to do it.

Then I went for my regular tragi-comedy evening session with Mum and her fellow-residents and staff in their advanced dementia "suite". It's not a ward and it's not (however hard it tries) a home but it is the most extraordinary, indefinable community. Words work differently in Willow. They're quite troublesome often and actions (behaviours) are frequently more eloquent. A bit like John's Campaign? Perhaps. I was inarticulate when I returned and couldn't explain at all to Francis what had made the evening's interactions so touching, so exhausting, so... sui generis. That would take a different level of language altogether. 

This three year period has been one of kaleidoscopic and fleetingly intense relationships -- as you have when you are caught up in a dance (or a movement). So I'm giving up on words now and leaving you with three photographs that were taken last week in Ireland. 

This is Theresa, a former nurse, living with dementia, who wrote a brilliant article in our Observer series and then flew -- on her own -- from Belfast to London last autumn to speak passionately and eloquently at our conference.  Theresa doesn't find life easy, she describes her brain as "like mud" but she is infuriated by people who talk about people with dementia and arrange things for them without having the basic courtesy and good sense to consult them. I am uneasy about this picture because it shows a potential gap of misunderstanding.  I could be about to be patronising; Theresa could be about to be suspicious.
As it happened Theresa and I were so truly glad to see one another -- neither had expected that the other would be at the event -- that once we had the good sense to give each other a big hug, everything was unequivocally okay.

This might be one of the weirdest photos ever -- I'm wriggling and gibbering like someone in a Harry Potter enchantment. Yet the person I'm with is Deirdre and I'd never met her before but we'd emailed one another as she signed up first one ward, then another and another in different hospitals in the South Eastern health and care trust. Deirdre was one of the nurses who met me with a gorgeous smile and simply took me under her wing. I could wriggle and gibber as much as I liked, with Deirdre I knew I was okay. 

Three years meeting and working with people like Deirdre and Theresa have been three unforgettable years.
I choose that word advisedly.




Friday, 8 December 2017

Writers Retreat • Lynne Garner

For a couple of years myself and better half have been talking off and on about what would make me a more productive writer. My reply (most of the time tongue in cheek) has been a house with no distractions and a very nice view.

Therefore, for the last few outings/holidays I've taken photographs of houses/properties I think may meet my criteria. As we live in hopes my premium bonds will win enough to purchase my ideal 'writing pad.'

So, these are just a few that have made it to the list so far.

I started think big! St Elizabeth's Castle, Jersey might do the trick. I'd have to put up with visitors part of the day but I would think when it's closed I'd get a lot of writing done.



Perhaps the house in line with the boat looks like it may be isolated enough (taken from a vantage point in Padstow).


Or maybe the large white house tucked away on it's own (on the right hand side of the photo) near Lulworth Cove would make me more productive. 


With this bay I'm not being fussy either of the two houses tucked away in the top right hand corner would defiantly, possibly, maybe make me a more productive writer. 


It's possible purchasing one of the holiday rooms at this country house (in the New Forest) would enable me to get my next WIP completed in record time. 


Although I'd have to keep away from the pond as the fish may see me. They have this ability to make you feel very guilty once you've run out of fish food! Making me less productive.


Now I've shared mine what would your ultimate writing pad look like?

Lynne

Blatant plug time - Check out my latest two books (ebooks just 99p)






Thursday, 7 December 2017

Santa’s Clauses by Bill Kirton

To counterbalance my seasonal ‘Bah humbug’ stance, I’ve resurrected and updated a piece I wrote nearly 50 years ago. (I even got paid for it when it was used in an educational anthology of some sort.)


 Dear sirs,

I am writing to you to make certain points about my conditions of employment which I feel are due for renegotiation.

1. Transport
Most representatives of my acquaintance drive a company car. I appreciate that an open sleigh has the charm of tradition but, in the northern hemisphere, it is hardly the ideal form of locomotion for late December. Also, while having it propelled by reindeer rather than fossil fuels significantly enhances our environmental credentials, the PR department's campaign to promote the image of my lead reindeer has resulted in unrest amongst the others. He now considers himself to be a superstar, holds an Equity card, and flaunts his celebrity status to such an extent that the others have developed militant tendencies which have led to some perilous arbitration disputes in the sky over Barnsley, Southampton and other densely populated areas.

2 Uniform
If you agree on the inappropriateness of the means of transport, it will follow that the big red coat and Wellington boots are also superfluous. Given the lack of chimneys and the ubiquity of small bore central heating systems, it has become increasingly difficult to gain access to some premises in order to place display material. A sleeker, foam-lined, skin diver’s outfit in Lycra would be much more appropriate. And I would like permission to shave. Again, I acknowledge the traditional value of the long white beard; but it effectively prohibits any active social life and is probably the main reason why I am still a bachelor.

3 Area
My conversations with other representatives have confirmed what I have always suspected, i.e. that my area is much too large. No other employer expects one representative to cover the whole world in a single night. I suggest, therefore, that we discontinue the practice of leaving courtesy cards at the homes of those who do not share the Christian faith, and that you employ a second representative for the southern hemisphere. Also, given that the Factories Act requires employees to record a statutory 90 days before they are entitled to a holiday, I would bring to your attention the fact that at this rate, working one night a year, I shall be 114 before I qualify.

4 Changing markets
I do not have exact figures but it is common knowledge that the world population is increasing exponentially at an alarming rate. And the new citizens are all children. Also, current socio-political conditions and the utterances and actions of leaders on both sides of the Atlantic have devalued notions of benevolence, bonhomie and charity, and fostered increased cynicism, amongst parents and children alike, to such an extent that belief in Father Christmas has been significantly eroded. I am secure enough in myself not to allow this to pose any existential problem, however, many children, thanks to their familiarity with games such as Grand Theft Auto, now seek to obtain evidence of my existence, or otherwise, by setting big steel traps in the fireplace. I think my salary should reflect this added hazard.

5 Factory
I have never understood why our manufacturing division’s premises were built at the strategically inconvenient North Pole, nor why recruitment policies favour elves. In terms of basic economics, if in any one year the vagaries of fashion promote a particularly large or heavy must-have toy, productivity invariably slows to critical levels.

To sum up: I would propose that the factory be resited in Monte Carlo, that height restrictions on employees be discarded, that Christmas be staggered, and that Rudolph be sold to the makers of Pedigree Chum.

Yours faithfully,

S. Claus

Wednesday, 6 December 2017

If it's Saturday, it must be Sheffield ... by Debbie Bennett



This is Sheffield on a cold but sunny Saturday in November. Galaxy 4 is a shop specialising in Dr Who merchandise, and those people are queuing to buy a DVD and/or books. I am sitting just inside the window behind a table with a black cloth and a name placard with a pen and ready to sign purchases! Yes, those people are queuing to see me!

Well, OK - they are more likely to be queuing to meet Damaris Hayman, tv actress who starred in the early 1970s Dr Who story The Daemons. She's also just starred in White Witch of Devil's End - a follow-on from the original story. Part monologue, part drama, this is a sequence of six short episodes where Olive Hawthorne talks about her life as protector of Devil's End. White Witch launched in November - and I wrote one of the episodes.

So I now have my first IMDb credit as a scriptwriter and I get to sign DVD sleeves alongside Damaris and some of the other writers. Plus there is the book too - a novelisation and expansion of the stories - in two editions. I adapted my episode and that's a whole new blog post in itself: most times the story comes first and the script out of the story. This was about-face, with the script being the starting point to create a deeper novelette ...


Standing: David J Hose, Sam Stone, me, Andrew Mark Thompson
Seated: Damaris Hayman, Keith Barnfather
It's weird being a part of all this. I could get used to it! Unfortunately I missed the first launch in Forbidden Planet. I had an attack of vertigo - the first major attack I've had in ten years, but it's really not funny when the floor won't keep still! I didn't dare get onto a train where the doors wouldn't open again for at least an hour ... I'm not entirely comfortable with the swaying movements of those trains on a good day.

But we move on. It's Sunday (two weeks later) and we're in Manchester, doing a talk, Q&A and signing in Waterstones in the Arndale Centre. Last time I was here was as a punter meeting crime-thriller queen Kim Chambers (and somehow ending up in the pub with her later ...). Now I'm several rungs higher on the literary ladder to be attending as one of the signers, rather than a signee!

So I'm standing up and waffling to an audience consisting of a few die-hard fans who've turned up, plus assorted family, random onlookers and people drinking coffee who had no choice but to listen. And it all went rather well. I'm getting better at speaking in public, although it's still not something I find easy.

Next stop for me is Birmingham Waterstones in January, where we are appearing at a ticketed evening event, no less, followed by Derby in early Feb as a guest of the Whoovers.

Yes, I could definitely get used to this - the life of a proper writer. It's just a shame I have to come back to housework and the prospect of being up at 7am tomorrow for the day job!




www.debbiebennett.co.uk

Tuesday, 5 December 2017

Festive Multi-Tasking by Cecilia Peartree

Women are sometimes thought to be better than men at multi-tasking, although I am not entirely convinced. Even if they are, it probably isn't an in-built skill, if it is even a skill, but a tendency which develops over the course of an average woman's life as they juggle a career, childcare, housework and anything else they might attempt outside these traditional spheres. Obviously in those enlightened times men do this too, but in my (fairly limited) experience it doesn't seem to come as easily to them. However as I get older I too am less able or willing to do more than one thing at a time, or even one after the other in some cases.

I was first introduced to the concept of multi-tasking in a book entitled (as far as I can recall) the I Hate to Housekeep Book, which was a sequel to the I Hate to Cook Book. I bought these to assist with my first attempts at cooking and housekeeping, probably while I was at university and living away from home for the first time, but the feelings expressed in their titles have been a kind of leitmotif for me ever since.
One of the chapters in the I Hate to Housekeep book was entitled 'How to do lots of things at once', or words to that effect. The writer's advice was that if you had lots of things to do, all apparently of equal urgency, you should make a start on all  of them before finishing any of them, on the grounds that once you had started you would feel bound to complete each of the tasks.
Because the example given in the book involved writing letters, I was reminded of it during this season when the task of sending Christmas cards looms up in the background like the shadow of a monster in a fantasy movie. It wouldn't loom quite so large if I didn't persist in writing letters to many of the recipients. At one time I used to use mail-merge to accomplish this but because my printer has been temporarily out of order for a couple of years, I've been having to hand-write things, and because of that the task often seems endless and therefore so impossible to accomplish before the last posting-date that I might as well not bother at all.

The point about making a start on lots of different things is oddly similar to the advice given by the tutor on a time management course I attended a bit more recently, which was to write down your list of tasks and do each of them for five minutes before moving on to the next one, and then to go back to the start and do each of them for ten minutes the next time, and so on.
I did try out the time management thing at work for a while, but it was so unwieldy and I kept being interrupted by more urgent stuff to do so often, that it seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Instead, during my working day, I usually start with the easiest and quickest things and move on to the more complicated things just at the end of the lunch-break, when hardly anyone ever calls or sends emails. I find this psychologically more satisfying as it means you get quite a few simple things finished and can tick them off your list, if you have a list, instead of potentially having them hanging over you all day.


When I first began to write seriously, which was another thing resulting from NaNoWriMo, I used to interleave writing with many other activities, such as running a youth drama group, working full-time, chairing a committee, helping with props for another drama group, and organising the family, to the extent that they were receptive to being organised. But during this year's NaNoWriMo I found I could do very little else apart from working on my novel. I was 'too busy' to go to any committee meetings, I couldn't read any other novels, and I certainly couldn't organise anything. I even took a week off work to write and actually wrote during it, which hasn't always been the case in the past. I think this is a sign either that my ability to multi-task has waned or that my ability to focus on doing one thing properly has increased. Either of these would probably represent some sort of progress.

Monday, 4 December 2017

Vancouver, Daisy news and a re-launch plan, by Rosalie Warren



Greetings from what is currently a very wet Vancouver, Canada – though the rain is due to stop some time on Saturday, I believe. Never mind the weather – it’s great to be here visiting my daughter, who is now a permanent resident of this beautiful country and may well be a fully-fledged Canadian citizen before next year is out. She came here nearly five years ago, a qualified architect with several years’ experience of working in Glasgow. She found a job and quickly settled here, and I can see why. Vancouver is one of the finest cities in the world – it truly has everything, including mountains, beaches, forests and some wonderful traditional cultures. The Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia is one of my favourite places on earth and I’ve visited it on every one of my trips so far (this is trip number five), and this time will be no exception. It’s enthralling to see all the wonderful First Nations artefacts, though of course there are some very sad aspects concerning the way these people have been treated by the incoming Europeans.



Traditional First Nations homes and totem poles at MoA


First Nations canoe at MoA
 
On my first walk on Thursday, exploring my local neighbourhood, I passed a very appealing public library within a few blocks of my apartment. I’m not sure how well libraries are faring in Vancouver but I’d hazard a guess that it’s a good deal better than in the UK. This one had friendly, welcoming air and gave the impression of being well tended, well supported and providing a haven for those needing shelter as well as a nurturing read. There were a good many people inside (yes, OK, the teeming rain probably helped) and the shelves were well stocked with what were definitely books! I went on my way feeling very sad about the situation back home. (Don’t let me get started on politics – I’m meant to be on holiday, after all.)

On another, though closely related, subject… my three-year-old granddaughter Daisy has been a book lover since before she could walk (actually, since before she could sit up and swivel round). It’s pure joy to see the way she loves her books – and she’s now started reading them (or very nearly) for herself.  She knows her favourites by heart, word perfect, and if she misses a bit she goes back a page to put it right (she knows exactly which words belong on each page). Daisy reads with perfect expression/intonation – pausing at all the right places to build tension for the listener! Being ‘read to’ by Daisy is currently one of my chief pleasures. She recognises her name in written form now, and all the numbers up to at least twenty. I don’t really mean to boast – I know that every child reaches landmarks in his or her own perfect time. Daisy has been quick at some things, slow at others. But watching her learn is such a joy – and as a grandparent I feel privileged to be seeing all this for a new generation. I am so delighted that, among all the things that Daisy loves (‘working on the laptop’ is the latest!), books come very high up the list.
Daisy reading with Grandpa - a mischievous smile there for the camera!

 Before I go, just to mention that my good friend and Authors Electric colleague, Enid Richemont, recently delighted me by posting a review of a book of mine that came out in 2012. This was not a good year for me, as my father very sadly passed away and, much less important but still very disconcerting, my publisher let me down by deciding against a series of mine she had been going to publish. Alexa’s Song came out somewhere in the middle of all that, and I never gave it any publicity, which meant it pretty much sank without trace, though I did get a couple of nice reviews. I never got round to publishing the paperback and had pretty much decided to give up on this one. But Enid, bless her, found it, read it and told me how much she’d enjoyed it – the story (for adults) of an artist, Jake, his love of musician Alexa and his battles with bipolar disorder. Enid’s comments and her review lifted my spirits so much (huge thanks, Enid) that I’ve decided to bring out the paperback next year and do a proper re-launch. It’s so easy to lose confidence and such a struggle to find it again, but I’m getting there, I really am! (The current novel is chugging along and I’m enjoying writing it in a way I haven’t enjoyed any writing for quite some time.)

You can see Alexa's Song on Amazon UK here



Anyway, it’s time to bid you au revoir from lovely Vancouver, all lit up for Christmas, sitting proudly in the rain. And to venture out in said rain for my next adventure…

Ooh, just a thought. Any recommendations of books for reading-crazy three-year-olds? Anything a bit different would be particularly welcome! Please feel free to recommend your own.

Best wishes to all,
Ros

Follow me on Twitter @Ros_Warren

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Interview With The Elf Himself - Umberto Tosi

Last week after much back-and-forth, I finally got the okay from Polar HQ to interview The Elf Himself. I wasn't going to complain about being offered this primo "get" at the last minute, what with December here and lights already strung everywhere. I would like to think that I got the twinkle-and-nod because the Jolly Red One wanted to meet the author of Milagro on 34th Street. I even fantasized that might give me an award for my past service as a "real bearded," department-store Santa. No dice, however. The reality, I suspect, was that Polar PR had called on me as a substitute after a celebrity television interviewer dropped out due to sexual misconduct charges. Can't have Santa's name mixed up in all that.

"Unseasonably warm," Kringle muttered, fiddling with a thermostat as I was escorted into his cluttered workshop office by a bony, baleful, elf from IT, who obviously didn't like the task. Santa extended a chubby white-gloved hand. "Sorry about the mess. Just clear away some of those toy parts and sit yourself down, boy!" He motioned toward a faded jade-green velvet upholstered Victorian sofa opposite a huge oak desk piled with stacks of paper -- presumably old lists, now handled electronically. I could barely see him when took a seat behind them.

It's been a lifetime since I was a boy, but I didn't correct him. He's way older than I, and knows everything, after all, especially if we've been bad or good -- and that makes for a long list I didn't want to get into with him or anyone.

"Seems awfully quiet around here, Mr. Claus, considering the time of year," I said.

"Just 'Santa' will do," he responded. "I've let most of the office staff go," he said. "We're clearing out for the new owner." He put a gloved finger to the side of his nose and his whole body floated upwards a bit so I could see him better.

I sensed a scoop. "New owner?"

"Jeff Besos. You know him?"

"I know of him." I scribbled furiously on my yellow-lined pad. (I still can't get the hang of digital notetaking and I'm awful at transcribing recordings.)

"He's converting the whole operation to online subscriptions and 3-D print-on-demand, with worldwide drone delivery." He waved a red-sleeved, ermine-fringed arm.

"I don't know about that," I said. "I can't even get my 2-D printer to spit out a Fandango ticket properly."

"Not my problem," said old St Nick.

"Does this mean you're going to retire?"

"Yes, except for very special appearances," he said.

"Some people would accuse you of selling out, Santa. What do you say to that?" It was time for the tough questions - beloved icon or not.

"When I started this business," Santa leaned back in his hovering chair, which I suddenly noticed was made of candy canes. "It was to do good, spread good cheer and compassion, encourage generosity, encourage civility, raise awareness about children. We were small -- delivering only here and there, trinkets, cookies, sweets... But it's grown worldwide, into a giant economic engine, a consumer madness, a cash cow for corporations often cashing in on child labor. It's gotten out of hand."

"So," I asked, "you're giving up?"

"No, I'm cashing out and putting the power of my meme to something I more useful I hope -- working all year to change things for the better, maybe. This holiday season thing isn't working out."

"Are you going to run for office?"

"I'm not ruling it out, but first off I'm starting a movement to get people to put as much energy into helping each other as they do into shopping. In the process, I'm hoping to scare politicians into weaseling for better causes than oil, war, and banking."

"Good luck with that, sir." I didn't want to sound disrespectful, but it had to be said. "Have you considered that you could be living in a polar bubble?"

"Yes. This is a space-time bubble. I know that. We rent it out for parties and getaways sometimes -- to Superman as his Fortress of Solitude, for example."

I scribbled this down furiously. Over the years I've found that I learn something with every interview. It's a sigh. I moved on. "What about the kids, waiting for Christmas morning. If you quit, who will supply the magic?"

"I'm trusting humanity to keep that going -- actually, growing into a larger sense of generosity towards others. As for gifts under trees, Amazon can do a better distribution job than I can with my elves and reindeer, frankly."

"What about your lists?" I pointed to the stacks on his desk. "Keeping track, lumps of coal and so forth?"

"The Doomsday Clock supersedes all that, don't you think?" He curled his white handlebars and brushed his beard. "If you don't change course, you're all going down, and taking your children with you. I'll have to relocate to another planet."

I broke into a sweat despite the lowered thermostat. I tried to lighten things up. "What about the reindeer?" I leaned forward to glimpse Rudolph poking his nose against one of the workshop's dusty oval windows.

"I'm putting them to pasture in Alberta, except for big events, rallies and so forth," he said, "near Lake Louise. Off the record, I have a lodge there."

"What about the United States? Any visits."

"I'm staying away as long as you folks let that Idiot Orange Orge run things. I'm an alien without papers, obviously not welcome. 'War on Christmas?' Hell, he and those who throw that accusation around make war on everything I'm about, starting with children. Talk about projection and fantasy!"

"That's kind of what my 'Milagro' novella's about," I said. "It's a take-off on the old movie, you know, Miracle on 34th Street, except instead of little Natalie Wood, Santa has to help a pair of U.S.-born children being orphaned by ICE agents deporting their mother."

"Yes. I read it," he said. Speed-reading, no doubt. I had almost forgotten Santa knows all. "When is the movie coming out?" Santa's renowned clairvoyance apparently doesn't include prophecy.

"That depends," I shrugged. "Nothing solid right now," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Would you consider a role -- maybe a cameo?" My face went red as his. I'm sure he noticed. I hadn't meant to hustle Santa Claus, just make conversation! But I wouldn't have turned down a book endorsement either.

"Don't sweat it. A little hustle isn't bad. Nothing wrong with shining your light."

"Er... what going to happen to your workshop, all this up here?" I changed the subject.

"Amazon is redoing the North Pole into a theme park."

"Wow. Quite ambitious. While Besos is at it, I wish Amazon would develop more accessible, comprehensive editing, production, and promotional tools for indie writers and publishers like me," I blurted. "We make good use of what's there, but it's not near the potential," I said.

Santa pulled an iPhone from his red jacket and entered a notation with surprising speed. "Anything else you want for Christmas, my boy?" He grinned.

"You can make that happen, Santa?"

"Only if you're not on the naughty list," Santa said, then added:

"Too late for that," I muttered.

"Just kidding," said Father Christmas, Der Alter Pelznickel, Papa Noël,  "I don't do processes, only gifts, good cheer or lumps of coal. All that other stuff is up to you people."

"No matter," I said. "Giving me this big story is Christmas present enough! Thank you, Santa."

"Ho ho ho! My pleasure" said the Jolly Old Elf. "Happy holidays!"

"You're good with that?"

"Of course! We're pan-solstice celebrants. You should know that. It's all the same, peace on earth, love and good will, - a Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!"

With that, he tickled his nose again and this time I was transported instantaneously back to Chicago, at my computer, writing this post. What an experience!
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Umberto Tosi is the author of My Dog's NameOphelia RisingMilagro on 34th Street and Our Own KindHis short stories have been published in Catamaran Literary Reader and Chicago Quarterly Review where he is a contributing editor. He was contributing writer to Forbes ASAP, covering the Silicon Valley tech industry. Prior to that, he was an editor and staff writer for the Los Angeles Times and its Sunday magazine. He was also the editor of San Francisco Magazine and other regionals He has written more than 300 articles for newspapers and magazines, online and in print. He joined Authors Electric in May 2015 and has contributed to several of its anthologies, including Another Flash in the Pen and One More Flash in the Pen.He has four grown children - Alicia Sammons, Kara Towe, Cristina Sheppard and Zoë Tosi - and resides in Chicago with artist Eleanor Spiess-Ferris.
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