Ms. Claus is on her deathbed. We're not immortal, you know. As such, I will not be delivering presents this year. A man from the 1800's has been pestering me to allow him to deliver presents
once. His name is Ebeneezer. Scrooge, I think. Ebeneezer Scrooge, that's it.
The Elve's records detail his lonely childhood, and humbug adulthood. But strangely, his last Christmas was a happy one. I believe my cousins, the ghosts of Christmases Past, Present and Yet to Come, may have had something to do with that.... Anyway, I'm letting E. deliver presents this year.
The reindeer, especially Vixen, dislike the whip, and E. seems like a whipper....
It might be best to leave some ointments out for the reindeer. E. doesn't seem like a cookie guy. I'd say a biscuit for him. (They call cookies biscuits in England.) Londeners are strange ones. I'm glad I come from Canada.
If you simply must know, my mother was an Inuit, killed in an igloo collapse, and my father was the previous Santa Claus.
Signed,
Nicholas K. Christmas
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