Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Saint Nicholas. What's his job?
Yes, you heard right. What's the great man's form of employment? What does he say at parties? How does the sentence, "Hi, I'm Nick, I'm a..." end?
Now, you may think, given he's got almost 2 billion addresses to deliver presents to (okay, that's the number of children in the world, but it's easier to google, so go with it), that he'd say he was something in logistics, transportation. You'd think he'd be in the Teamsters. Actually, you'd think he'd be life president of the Teamsters, given he has 364 days to devote to union activity, and who works Christmas Day?
But that's just where you'd be wrong. Because the flaw in your logic would be staring you in the face. What's he doing the other 364 days of the year? He's making a list; he's checking it twice.
That's a bloody big Excel file. Excel's good, and it's a simple table (name; address; present wanted; naughty or nice?; maybe a column for evidence), but 1.9 billion lines may be flying at the limits of it's capacity. I haven't worked that one out. But the point is that Nicholas of Bari was - nay, is - a data jockey, a spreadsheet pilot.
You see, the whole courier thing is a sideline, little more than a hobby. There are Yodel drivers on zero hours contracts that are more committed to door-to-door deliveries that Santa. Like the rest of us, he's a corporate wageslave, a commuter with a computer most of the year. Probably works in a cubicle. Maybe seen him on mass transit, sat next to him. He'll have a grey pallor; a faraway expression like he has something on his mind; I don't think he'll have a loud tie. He's looking forward to Christmas; it's his one day away from a screen, out in the fresh air. He's not that different from you.
You don't like that Christmas story? Okay, here's another: NewMyths.com has just run my seasonal tale, Charles Edward Tuckett's Yuletide Message. Maybe you'll like that one. Or this one:
Yes, you heard right. What's the great man's form of employment? What does he say at parties? How does the sentence, "Hi, I'm Nick, I'm a..." end?
Now, you may think, given he's got almost 2 billion addresses to deliver presents to (okay, that's the number of children in the world, but it's easier to google, so go with it), that he'd say he was something in logistics, transportation. You'd think he'd be in the Teamsters. Actually, you'd think he'd be life president of the Teamsters, given he has 364 days to devote to union activity, and who works Christmas Day?
But that's just where you'd be wrong. Because the flaw in your logic would be staring you in the face. What's he doing the other 364 days of the year? He's making a list; he's checking it twice.
That's a bloody big Excel file. Excel's good, and it's a simple table (name; address; present wanted; naughty or nice?; maybe a column for evidence), but 1.9 billion lines may be flying at the limits of it's capacity. I haven't worked that one out. But the point is that Nicholas of Bari was - nay, is - a data jockey, a spreadsheet pilot.
You see, the whole courier thing is a sideline, little more than a hobby. There are Yodel drivers on zero hours contracts that are more committed to door-to-door deliveries that Santa. Like the rest of us, he's a corporate wageslave, a commuter with a computer most of the year. Probably works in a cubicle. Maybe seen him on mass transit, sat next to him. He'll have a grey pallor; a faraway expression like he has something on his mind; I don't think he'll have a loud tie. He's looking forward to Christmas; it's his one day away from a screen, out in the fresh air. He's not that different from you.
You don't like that Christmas story? Okay, here's another: NewMyths.com has just run my seasonal tale, Charles Edward Tuckett's Yuletide Message. Maybe you'll like that one. Or this one:
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