THE BIG STORY

“Hey, happy New Year!  How was your Christmas?” Susan asked as Penny entered the office.
“Christmas was OK, but no-one came at New Year, they were all sick,” Penny replied.
“Tell me about it.  Chris called in sick this morning.  Said he was coughing so much he fell and hit his chin on the counter.”
“Knowing him, he fell over drunk,” Penny replied.
All around the office they could hear people coughing and grumbling.  It was hard for Susan to concentrate on her research.  The newsroom wanted her to come up with at least three January dieting fads and a comparison of their success rates.
Natasha strode in dressed to the nines as usual, a waft of perfume preceding her.
“You’re on with Charlie today, Chris is off sick,” Susan told her.
“Hungover again,” sighed Natasha and went on her way.

Later Charlie and Natasha debated diets on the lunchtime news after cursory coverage of the ferry sinking in the Mediterranean.
“God, I feel rough,” Penny complained to Susan after watching the broadcast, “I think I’ll go home.”
Susan nodded distracted and began her research on the effects of sea sickness medication.  It was thought that this combined with alcohol had caused a crew member to drive the ferry onto the rocks.

Later Susan went to her doctor’s office to collect a repeat prescription.  It was full of people coughing and shivering.  Susan put her hand over her mouth.  Behind the desk a tired looking doctor was talking urgently to the practice manager.  Susan caught snatches of their conversation; “... epidemic ... phones ringing and ringing ... out of hand ... patients collapsing ... emergency call outs ...”

Typical, she thought, a bit of flu and the overstretched system collapsed.  As she was about to leave a woman behind her fainted.  Susan tutted, some people would do anything to jump the queue for the doctor.

At home her boyfriend shivered under a duvet complaining of headache and fever.  Susan warmed him some soup, then continued to work on researching the efficacy of abs exercises.  Did they burn fat or simply create muscle behind the fat causing the post Christmas bulge to grow?  She left her boyfriend to sleep alone, his soup untouched.  In the morning he didn’t come out of the bedroom to say goodbye to her and outside their front door was a body.  The homeless guy.  There was blood around his mouth.  Susan shuddered, stepped over him and continued on her way.  Someone else would call the Police, she was far too busy.  All morning her smart phone had been alerting her to emails from work.  The abs exercise report had to be written and the sea sickness piece finalised.  Chris was still off sick, Penny was too ill to come in and Natasha was running late because she’d had to take her children to the doctor.

Hardly anyone was in the office, Susan was able to concentrate on meeting her deadlines.  Charlie approached her desk looking uncharacteristically troubled; “Chris has died,” he said, “pneumonia.”

Susan looked up from her keyboard, her face draining of colour.
“Now, Susan, don’t get upset, we all knew he drank.  It wrecked his immune system.”
“There was a dead homeless guy outside my house this morning,” she whispered.
“Oh dear, not a good start to the day all round.  Hey ho, must keep going, the News never stops.  What’s the progress on that abs exercises piece?”

SANTA'S CHRISTMAS

Ruby and Billy rushed to the living room to find a modest pile of Christmas presents under an artificial Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  It had been a tough year.

The children started with their stockings, each contained a novelty pencil, a tangerine and a tennis ball.  They looked at each other and continued; surely the bigger presents would be more exciting.  But Grandma had given knitted jumpers and hats and Nanna had provided painting sets.  The last hope was the present from Mummy and Daddy.  Ruby thought she remembered there had been more than one each last Christmas.  Billy opened a cheap looking trainset and could barely hide his disappointment.  For Ruby there was a baby doll with no house, accessories or cot to go with it.

They turned to glare at Mummy and Daddy.  At that moment the front door was knocked down.  Mummy and Daddy turned, mouths falling open and the children whooped with delight.  In he came, red coat and black boots, white fur trim and long flowing beard.  He carried no sack though and gave no cheery hohoho.  “Mummy and Daddy!” he cried, “Billy and Ruby wrote to me at the beginning of December.  Billy wanted a bicycle.  Ruby wanted a princess palace.  They both wanted an X-box.  This pile of crap here, what is it?  Jumpers, tangerines?  They’re not presents!”

“We’re hard up,” Mummy whispered.
“And where’s your presents to each other, Mummy and Daddy?  Has the romance gone?  And what is there for dinner?”  Santa marched through to the kitchen and opened the fridge; the children ran after him and clutched at his red coat.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Santa, “turkey, potatoes and carrots?  Is that ALL?  Where’s the stuffing?  The sausage meat wrapped in bacon?  The WINE?”
Mummy burst into tears and Daddy put his arm round her; “Look ...” he began.
“I can fix this,” Santa interrupted, “the children needn’t remember anything.  I’ll put the clock back to early December.  You can get this right.”
“Do you want us to skip a mortgage payment or something?” demanded Daddy, “Jesus!”
Santa became very still, his face went as red as his coat and his eyes flashed a demonic shade of green; “Don’t say that name to me!  He isn’t what Christmas is about!  It’s all about me!  I say that how much you love your children shows in how much you spend on them - the amount of presents and the quality of those presents.  It’s about gorging your faces with luxury food and drinking your fill of wine!  Now, do you want me to turn back the clock or not?”
“Yes please!” cried Billy and Ruby.
Mummy and Daddy nodded.

Ruby and Billy rushed downstairs to the living room to find an enormous pile of Christmas presents under a beautiful pine Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  The stockings were crammed with toys and sweets; there was Billy’s bicycle, Ruby’s princess palace and an X-Box.  There were DVDs, dolls, books, puzzles and Lego.  Mummy got her favourite perfume and Daddy a Breitling watch.  Waiting in the kitchen was a sumptuous turkey feast to be served with champagne or red wine when the rest of the family arrived.  The day was one long party, although Mummy and Daddy were at times quiet.  On Boxing Day; the children played with their bonanza of toys, while Mummy and Daddy whispered furiously at each other in another room.

The day after Boxing Day, Mummy went out, taking Daddy’s watch with her.  The children played with Billy’s bike in the garden and the postman called.  Billy was doing wheelies and wanted his father to watch.  “Daddy!” he called.  There was no reply.  Then, from inside the house there was a crash and an audible crack.  The children ran in to find Daddy hanging by the Christmas tree, a letter from the bank under his feet.

PEACE ON EARTH

I don’t mind the Slackers getting away with stuff, as long as they are polite and helpful towards the Customers.  The ones causing me anxiety are the Workers.  They’re so grateful to have a job they forget to take breaks, to switch off by walkin’ in a winter wonderland ...

I patrol the aisles, ensuring no-one is feeling the effects of the conditions because even the Slackers know it’s Christmas time at all ... and are getting involved, decking the aisles with bows of holly tra la la la la ... I mean, they’re working hard for once too.

“Mr Fulton,” Jenny rushes to me, “it’s happening again, aisle ten.”
Emma is staring at the shelves swaying side to side; “Ring ding ding ding ding ding-a-ling ...” she moans, surrounded by anxious colleagues.
“Take her outside.  Let her sit in her car,” I order.
They lead Emma away, past bemused Customers.  I smile reassuringly thinking longingly of outside where it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with ...

I continue my rounds.  When I reach the mistletoe and wine aisle, I can take my break.  Several customer queries and the incident with Emma have caused me to run behind.  My name is called over the tannoy, summoning me to aisle eight.  Jenny intercepts me; “There’s loads coming down with it, Mr Fulton.  You’re going to have to change the ...”

“Not now!” We’ve reached aisle eight.
All my life the Customer has come first, not the staff, not the Corporation that pays my wages.  I take pride in looking after their every need, in making sure they have a happy holiday, that their experience shopping with us is ... is oh I wish it could be Christm ... Oh God, I didn’t take my break, I can’t think!  There is a Customer down in aisle eight, standing over him is his wife, a frozen turkey in her hand, she’s weaving slightly and mumbling under her breath; “In the meadow we can build a snow man ... he’ll say are you married, we’ll say no man ...”  She starts to laugh.  I’ve seen staff this bad, but they spend hours in the store.  Could this over-exposure be due to the Corporation’s insistence we change things round regularly so that no matter how they write out their list, Customers will never get the order right and spend ages doubling back?
“What happened?” I ask.
“He told her to cook the turkey upside down so it wasn’t dry like last year, that’s all he said ...” Sandra reported as she moved the Customer into the recovery position.
“Give me the turkey,” I said gently to the woman, “I know how to make things right.  But you have to be quick, I didn’t take my break and ...”
“But baby it’s cold outside,” the woman whispered clutching the turkey.
“The weather outside is frightful ...” I begin to agree, then remember it’s not.
“Mr Fulton,” Jenny sounds edgy.  They can’t take me outside, not in front of the staring Customers.
I do the unthinkable, I snatch the turkey from the woman.  I have to save them, the Slackers, the Workers, my beloved Customers.  I sprint heading for the mistletoe and wine ... the booze aisle where the door leads out back.  Jenny is right, but I’m not going to change the playlist, we’re going to have a complete change from this constant sleigh-bell infested loop, we’re going to have silence!
“Mr Fulton!  What are you doing?” cries Gary in the warehouse, but Jenny has followed me and she holds Gary back.
“Go Mr Fulton!” she urges me as I bash the frozen turkey into the sound system again and again.
Finally we have what we crave, no sleigh-bells, no cheesy singing, no mention of enforced joy, presents or snow.  We have silence, we have ... peace on earth ... Oh God no.