Christmas is gathering quickly on the horizon - much like a great
cumulonimbus moving in stealthily from the south.
Sure, it looks fluffy enough as you admire its shapely form.
Comfortable, even. You imagine somersaulting into it with child-like frivolity
sending tufts of white foamy flotsam and jetsam into the endless blue. But
then, as it gathers, it takes on a more menacing demeanor. Panic ensues:
hideously early Christmas adverts. Last minute Christmas shopping. Boney M. And
finally.... the most blood-curdling of all: Secret Santa.
Readers of my blog (me) will recall an earlier post in which I revealed
my distaste for this nasty corporate Christmas routine which seems to permeate
every organisation at this time of year. And this year was no different.
Again, I have to wonder aloud what pleasure people seem to be persuing
through this Secret Santa mechanism?
Giving a gift to someone in THAT team who (other than the bespoke 'good
day' counterpoint you may have shared during the year) you would otherwise
rather bludgeon with your stapler than buy a gift for does NOT bestow the
Christmas spirit on anyone. Especially when said gift is purchased within the infinite realms of a
$5 spending cap. Add to this poisonous mix the anonyminity of the giver, and you have,
ladies and gentlemen, the perfect storm.
For three days I watched. Waited. A hapless duck on open water waiting
for my fate. Scanning every movement on the bank, every swaying reed. For three
days there was nothing. And then.
Apon returning from the photocopying machine (grinning stupidly with the
afterglow only multiple pages of colour-copying can bestow) there it was.
Sitting there like a wrapped scar apon an otherwise untouched landscape. A.
Bar. Of. Soap.
And lo my darling boys and girls! Not just any kind of soap. This was
something special.
Manuka Honey GARDENERS soap. And left on my swivel chair - no doubt an
extra added touch. It will come in very handy at my apartment where the only
hint of 'garden' is my struggling parsely pot. No matter, I often need something fairly
round, smooth and weighty to lob at loud pedestrians on the street below. And if it leaves a
honey-scented slipstream - all the better.
I have to confess that while my allergy to Secret Santa was again
cemented into every fibre of my being this year, I was not alone.
My lovely colleague B returned to her desk to find a non-descript memo
pad staring back at her - with a smug look that suggested it had come from our
very own stationary cupboard no less! At times like these we, the mass affected
can only gather. We had coffee. We swapped Secret Santa war stories - holding
our trophies to the light, marvelling at the sheer incompetence that brought
them to us. And we laughed.
Perhaps, I was not given a bar of honey soap this year. Perhaps I was
given the chance to sit with someone special: to laugh and joke and remember
that Christmas is not about what you find on your swivel chair - but those who
sit in the ones around you.
Merry Christmas everyone.
