It is often asked what Mrs Claus gets up to while the big man in the red suit is speeding across the sky in his sleigh, delivering gifts to the children of the world...a few years ago, I had the privilege of discovering the answer to that question.
With the world population rapidly expanding towards eight billion, the traditional elvish labour force had become vastly overworked, and the boss had taken the decision to hire increasing numbers of human employers. At this point, I'd been working for Claus and Sons Ltd. for about five years, being appointed as manager of the distribution arm of the giant North Pole complex. My department had the unenviable task of ensuring that the several billion toys manufactured by the company each year were distributed accurately through two hundred countries; a task carried out in conjunction with the operations division.
While it is true that Santa himself still delivers several consignments of gifts in person - each year, he assumes responsibility for one of the 'drop zones' - the sheer size of the task facing us each December means that, far from relying on a single sleigh, Claus and Sons now operates veritable Air Force. With over 800,000 tonnes of toys to distribute, the traditional method of transportation would require the services of several million reindeer; instead, we now make use of several hundred high-tech transport aircraft, and rival the USAF in terms of budget and manpower.
Naturally, I assumed that this was going to be a Christmas like any other: the boys in Operations were busy co-ordination the deployment of the squadrons to their rendezvous points, while the Engineering crews had all signed off for some precious down-time. In a few hours, we would see the return of the first wave of transports - which, as always, was being led by Santa himself - and the mechanics wanted to be in top form when they tackled the task of 'mothballing' the aircraft for another year.
For those of us in Distributions, our role in the night's activities were long over. However, someone had to take care of paperwork; and that someone, unsurprisingly, was me.
Sitting alone in my office in Sector One, North Pole, I gazed out over the frozen arctic tundra, desperately trying to summon up the willpower to tackle the mound of forms which had landed in my in-tray. Don't misunderstand me - I loved working for the Clauses - but the sheer boredom of filling out all of these forms every Christmas Eve, slaving away in an empty office for hours on end, was virtually inescapable. Had there been even one other person in the building, it wouldn't have been so bad, but as far as I could tell, I was totally alone. On the plus side, I could blast out some Christmas songs on the radio without fear of disturbing anyone.
With the first strains of 'Stop the Cavalry,' pouring out of the speakers, I grabbed the first batch of forms from the stack, and gave a heavy sigh as I started to fill in the necessary details regarding the aircraft payloads and deployment plans. Soon, I became totally engrossed in the seemingly endless stream of papers, allowing myself to work on effective autopilot as each background song segued into the next on a seamless playlist. Even Cliff Richard's 'Mistletoe and Wine,' - a song which normally set my teeth on edge - barely caused a pause in my steady pace, and after a couple of hours, the pile in my out-tray finally seemed by far the larger of the two.
As I heard Johnny Mathis beginning to croon forth with 'When a Child is Born,' the need for a break finally filtered through to my cramped limbs. Throwing down my pen and pushing back my chair, I heaved myself wearily to my feet and, with a rather stiff gait, stalked out to the water cooler in the corridor. The rest of the building appeared entirely deserted: there was no sound other than the gurgling of the cooler, and the only light came from the green security sensors in the ceiling. As a result, the pale white walls of the corridor were tinted with a slightly eerie glow, and I found myself humming along to my office radio, half expecting to find someone creeping up behind me.
Suddenly, the almost oppressive silent was broken by approaching footsteps, snapping me out of my nervous reverie and sending me hurrying back to my office. I turned the volume down a fraction and returned to my work, attempting to look as busy as possible, and a few minutes later, was surprised to hear a slightly muffled knock at the door. There, bundled up in a heavy red parka with a high collar and hood, traces of snow still visible on her black leather boots, was none other than Mrs. Claus. As she pulled off her thick, fur-lined mittens and struggled with the buttons on her coat, I struggled to my feet and hurried across the room, setting the heating to maximum.
"Excellent. You're still here." Mrs. Claus panted, hanging her coat on the hook behind the office door. "I was worried that you would have been on your way home by now." She flashed me a smile, settling down into one of the leather armchairs next to the electric heater and stretching her body out in the manner of a cat. As I drained the cup of water that I had brought back from the cooler, I sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, watching the artificial flames flicker in the gathering darkness, the light reflecting in Mrs. Claus' ice-blue eyes and her long, silver-grey hair.
Although in her early sixties, my boss's wife was certainly by no means ready to give in to the lure of retirement as far as the company was concerned. She was what many might call an 'Amazonian' woman: almost six feet tall, with long arms and legs and a powerful physique, her full curves and ample frame concealing muscles like steel ropes. For years, Mrs. Claus had taken an interest in the details of the firm's operations, frequently working alongside the engineers in the shipyard or lifting and shifting with the crews on the loading docks. Indeed, had this been England rather than the North Pole, you might have expected her to have been a veteran of the rugby field or the hockey pitch.
Given that it was Christmas Eve, I wasn't at all surprised to see that she had chosen to wear a suitably festive jumper - a thick woollen affair in deep crimson, emblazoned with a stylised sleigh, reindeer and santa silhouette picked out in white. It was obvious that she had just come over from the hanger bay, because the jolly design only partially distracted attention away from the fact that it was stretched over the top half of a scarlet and green boiler suit, this having a number of large oil stains visible on the legs from where she had carelessly wiped her hands.
However, even such utilitarian work attire could not disguise her beautiful figure, and I could feel myself blushing as I gazed across at Mrs. Claus, her face appearing to glow in the artificial firelight. She had clearly spotted what was going on, because her expression softened suddenly, small 'laughter lines' appearing at the corners of her eyes. "Why so nervous?" She asked in a low voice. "We're outside of working hours now. Besides, you know that it's just us here; everyone else is either out on deployment, in mission control, or in bed." Another smile, more soothing this time, spread across her face. "Why not take a break from all that paperwork?"
Unsure of what exactly to make of that statement, I fidgeted in my chair, absent-mindedly scratching behind my right ear. "Maybe you're right Ma'am," I sighed wearily. "I suppose that the rest of those forms could wait until the morning."
Mrs. Claus fixed me with a steady, almost penetrating gaze. Then she spoke again, her voice half stern, half sympathetic; "I know that you're dedicated to the success of our firm, but honestly, you do push yourself too hard. Just for tonight, put the brakes on, and allow yourself a little breathing space." I found myself nodding automatically: after all, why disagree with the CEO on the subject of stopping work?
A few minutes later, we had relocated to the small canteen at the end of the corridor. I was busily whisking up a batch of steaming hot cocoa while Mrs. Claus raided the cupboards, locating the Accounts Department's secret stash of giant chocolate chip cookies. Having suitably loaded up with goodies, we seated ourselves either side of one of the flimsy aluminium tables, nursing warm mugs between our cold hands, each waiting for the other to be the first to dive into the pile of delicious treats that Mrs. Claus had set down between us. As before, the only sounds were the dull hum of the heating system and my distant office radio.
Just as I raised my mug to my lips and took in a deep draught of the creamy liquid, the sweet warmth spreading out over my tongue and down my throat, I became aware of something moving under the table; something which was, very slowly and deliberately, creeping up my leg. 'A mouse!' I thought, panicking slightly, struggling to keep composed and not spray hot cocoa in the direction of Mrs. Claus, who seemed totally unaware that anything was amiss. As I felt the mouse - or whatever it was - move over my knee and along my thigh towards my crotch, I slowly lowered my mug, withdrew one hand as nonchalantly as possible, and with lightning speed, made a grab for whatever had just danced across my lap.
That was when Mrs. Claus finally lost her composure, attempting to both scream and laugh simultaneously. Not only that, but she slid forwards off her chair, sending her half-full mug flying through the air in a high arc and smashing against the far wall. I had screamed too, but more out of shock and surprise than anything else. As you might have guessed, it wasn't a mouse that I had yanked out from under the table; it was a naked foot with five wiggling toes at one end and the rest of my boss's wife's strong, shapely leg at other.
