In-between Days

In-between Days

Those days between Christmas and New Year are lost somewhere in the mists of time. Endless, with no apparent rhyme or reason, people have been known to lose their minds in the “down the rabbit hole” nature of this particular glitch in the matrix. Schedules relied upon for the rest of the year are suspended in the ether and entire populations roam from one room to another wondering what to do with an apparently infinite amount of happenstance. It’s within these non-descript, colourless days that there lies the potential inspiration for a Reverend Dodgson-style flight of fantasy or a real-life account from the bowels of the Shires (or at least, Northamptonshire).

Joseph rattled his house-key in the lock and opened the front door. His flat looked very much as he had left it days ago which was a relief. There had been a spate of burglaries around the Christmas period as was the custom. People wearing black and white hooped vests carrying bags marked “swag” would invariably infiltrate homes to purloin presents wrapped and waiting for them. The sun was inching above the horizon, freed from its overnight incarceration behind the circumference of the rotating Earth. This daily miracle looked like something of a struggle in the depths of winter-tide.

The last few weeks had been full on. Every December was the same. Still, it provided fulfilling work even if only for a month. The rest of the time he wrote jokes for Christmas crackers and sold shoes at the Pavers franchise based in the local garden centre. The former he enjoyed, the latter he barely tolerated. It wasn’t so hard to think of yuletide puns albeit surely the public would come to realise that it was just the same old asinine content that had circulated around dinner tables for decades.

Why did Santa’s helper see the doctor? Because he had low elf-esteem.

Employment was hard to come by for elves. Joseph was grateful for the opportunity; an unintended benefit of Nexit. The citizens of the North Pole had grown increasingly disgruntled at the numbers of workers flooding in from outside their borders culminating in a referendum in 2016. The vote had been a close call but a narrow majority had opted to return to a sovereign state rather than one intimately connected to the rest of the world. And so the pledge to control the borders came into force. This hadn’t accounted for the continued growth of the world population and the ever increasing demand for toys by volume. The newly, self-declared republic was chronically under-equipped to deal with the vagaries of the market. In what many saw as something of a U-turn but, ultimately, a necessary evil, visas had been granted in recent years to thousands of elves from outside of the North Pole to fill the gaps in supply. Joseph, the elf from Wootton in Northampton was one of those temporary migrant souls.

The journey back had had its usual shenanigans. On the train from Euston, a couple of youths had mocked Joseph mercilessly for his green conical hat with yellow band and a red feather sticking out, bright green tunic, yellow hose and curly-toed slippers. He had tried to placate them with a cover story about being out on an all-day fancy dress party but they hadn’t bought it, fuelled by copious amounts of lager and cider. Eventually, he had tired of the not-so-good-natured japery and bundled them into the train toilet and forced their heads down the pan before flushing. You didn’t see THAT sort of thing in the movie “Elf”.

Today felt cold. Joseph checked the weather app on his mobile phone. It showed that it was just 4C with a snow flake symbol indicating the possibility of snow. He should turn the heating on really. Taking a step towards the thermostat on the wall, he hesitated. Octopus Energy were already demanding £300 monthly by direct debit and usage was forecast to rise over the next couple of months. Thinking better of it, the fiscally-cautious elf left the boiler idle and wandered into the living room. Pouring a tumbler of whisky from a half-full bottle of Famous Grouse, he slumped on the settee. He thought about flicking the television on but baulked at the notion of watching morning tv. At this time of year, the stories were all the same. Crazed, half-dressed people going for dips in sub-zero temperatures, revellers out on the town partying defying a dire economic backdrop and strikes across the public sector that were frustrated with below-inflation pay rises offered. He could watch “Bad Santa” for the millionth time but he had a shift at the shoe shop soon so it might be best to get some shut eye. He fell asleep clutching his glass.

The garden centre was heaving with patrons keen to escape the claustrophobic confines of their houses. It was a tradition to seek out knock-down priced Chrimbo cards and decorations ready for the following year. It was a short walk from Turners Court to Dobbies for Joseph. No such luck that there was any snow to be seen. Instead, wind howled and rain fell in a grey, bleak aftermath of Christmas Day. Perhaps it was a welcome break from the endless vista of alabaster ice-sheets and Aurora Borealis in the frozen North. After all, chances of encountering a cute-looking yet murderous polar bear were slim to zero in this part of the world.

Joseph slipped quietly between two pensioners who had just ambled an entry through the glass-door entrance. He still attracted stares from passers-by. As much as the desire to change out of the elf outfit was overwhelming, the enduring magic of the Fairy Code forbade it. Moreover, any attempt to remove traditional clothing would quickly be prevented by a wand-clutching, gossamer-dress wearing Trixabelle or something like it appearing out of nowhere and sprinkling punishment spells on the offender. On one occasion, Joseph had been held spell-bound in a seat and made to watch a Piers Morgan documentary about the life and times of Piers Morgan. It had been a hideous experience, one which he still had the mental scars from.

The recalcitrant elf weaved his way through the open-plan displays within the garden centre. Groups of young families, couples and gaggles of elderly meandered around stock on shelves and stand-alone exhibits of merchandise. The Christmas section still reigned supreme, being larger than the others even for just a few more days. Joseph pondered why folks spent their hard-earned on elves-on-shelves, gonks with beards and large, light-up robins. It was as though the season parted people from their senses. A little boy in a high-pitched squeal was pointing at an inflatable reindeer; the mystery of inane expenditure laid bare.

Pavers was at the back of the floor on the left-hand side. Joseph snaked his way through browsing shoppers. Tight rows of shoes segregated by type and size made space a premium with every square foot utilised to maximum effect. He had been the star salesman for some time now. Mario, the capricious franchise owner, knew he was on to a good thing. He allowed the enigmatic elf all four weeks of his annual holiday allowance in December knowing that the gesture would be repaid in spades through footwear sold. Punters were drawn to his colourful, elf suit with little questioning as to why he wore it all year round. Children, in particular, fell over themselves to be served by the little guy who looked like Buddy from the film. This meant that shifts were nearly always busy with plenty of requests to be served by the short bloke in the funny outfit. Before getting underway today, he would slide outside for a quick ciggie.

Disappearing through a door at the edge of the unit, Joseph was back outside, standing on the wet concrete of the car park. Leaning against a wall, he took his packet of cigarettes from a top pocket and flicked a lighter open. A black Audi trundled over speed bumps, looking for a space in the car park outside of Waitrose next door. Taking his first puff, he couldn’t help but notice a couple of men bundling what looked like two life-size mannequins into a shed at the back of the garden centre. As they walked away, he crept along, getting closer to the scene of a possible, faux kidnapping and imprisonment. The shed was wooden with a square, glass window on its side. Nobody else seemed to have either noticed or, if they had, shown any concern for the dubious episode. Now perched close enough to see inside, Joseph held his flattened hand on the pane at forehead height and peered at the contents. He could see that the two figures looked just like Michael Buble and Mariah Carey. They were both standing upright inside white, refrigeration units with the doors open. Both had tags hanging from their arms that read “Not to be opened until 1^st December 2023. Allow 12 hours to defrost.” The Canadian songster was fixed in a permanent croon whilst the American songbird’s mouth was wide open in full warble. Joseph guessed that someone would be along shortly to lock them away for another year. This did explain why so little was heard up until December from the monoliths of the music industry. Joseph thought that this was a blessing.

With fag break over too quickly, the stoical elf shuffled back inside. Christmas songs were blaring out over the garden centre sound system. Roy Wood was wishing it could be Christmas every day. Joseph thought about this and decided it would be just too much for kids and far too expensive for parents. Ready for his shift, the sound of high-pitched delirium and mass hysteria on a minor scale could be heard from a queue that had formed along the centre of the shop. A makeshift sign in the shape of a road-distance stake said “National Elf Service 6 feet.” on one arm of an arrow whilst on the other it said “North Pole 3,294 miles”. Joseph stared at the amalgam of parents and children and wished he was on the far side of the mileage estimate. In just eleven more months…..in-between days.

*Reverend Dodgson = Lewis Carroll

**Image is my own