'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings

Not a creature was stirring.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘An elf… I think.’

The statue’s crazed yellow eyes stalk us into the silent park. 

I should never have compromised – yes I got my June holiday, but my Christmas-obsessed boyfriend got his pick of the destination. 

Santa Claus’s village, Lapland.

At midsummer.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below.

A muzak Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree seeps from the midnight-sun-drenched speaker system.

‘I swear that fibreglass snowman just grinned.’ I reach for Alex’s hand.

‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulls me into Santa’s Square. ‘Look!’ 

‘It’s just a signpost.’ 

‘To everywhere! London, Melbourne, Bali…’ 

‘Bali’s a lovely holiday destination...’

My stomach growls. I survey the haunted concession stands, empty mulled wine urns, and– 

Alex’s scream curdles the air.

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

‘That signpost bit me!’

I examine Alex’s hand. ‘It’s just a splinter. I’ll get it with my eyebrow tweezers later.’ 

We follow a jolly sign for Santa’s House and Burger Cafe.

I’d kill for a bowl full of jelly.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

The plastic cottage is (of course) made to look like gingerbread and candy canes. Spotting a case piled with cakes, I creep inside. 

I reach towards a bun.

‘Ho ho ho!’ 

Santa, cowled in the dark, is down on one knee. 

I faint. 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day tinkles from sun-drenched loudspeakers above our deckchairs. 

‘I love Bali in December!’ Alex raises his glass as I admire the sparkle of my engagement ring.

‘Here’s to compromise,’ I toast.

— includes extracts from 'A Visit from St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore