"Like all those muggers and murderers you deal with everyday?" I wanted to know.
"It has nothing to do with my job," she replied. "And for your information it is usually burglars that I'm involved in catching, not murderers. The problem is with you. Ever since you finished acting school, all you do is sit around here and mope. I don't mind about the fact that you can't contribute much to the rent, but I just don't get any kick out of having you around any more. You're a total bore."
"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," I replied, sarcastically.
"It's you who needs to have confidence in yourself," she lectured me. "I'm doing you a favour by throwing you out."
"I bet you say the same thing to the metho drinkers when you kick them off their park benches," I yelled at her, though I knew that I was wasting my breath.
When Debbie made her mind up about something, there was no arguing with her. So I ended up out on my arse. It looked as if I would have to get myself some kind of job or take to drinking metho and sleeping on park benches myself.
As it was I got two jobs. By day I was a department store Santa, by night - a hen's night stripper. Well, at least I was performing, after a fashion.
Wearing a Father Christmas outfit during the middle of the hot Australian summer is one of the torments of Hell that Dante somehow forgot to mention in his "Inferno".
"What do you want for Christmas, little boy?" I asked an innocent looking boy of about eight years as he sat on my knee, which had gone to sleep and was now nothing but a fuzzy mass of pins and needles.
"I want a book about how to make bombs," he replied gleefully.
"Now, now," I told him, "I don't think that is a very appropriate Christmas present for a boy like yourself."
"I want a book about how to make bombs," he insisted, his voice rising. "I want a book about how to make bombs so that I can blow up my little sister."
"You have to be a good little boy to get any Christmas present at all," I told him. "And good little boys don't blow up their baby sisters."
"If you don't give me a book about how to make bombs," he threatened, scowling at me now, "I'll get one from the Santa down the road and use it to blow you up as well as my little sister."
"All right, time's up," I told him, pushing him off my knee.
"He's not the real Santa!" the boy yelled to all the other children waiting in line.
"Don't listen to him," I told them. "He's an anarchist."
My next customer was a little girl of about seven years, who came up very shyly to sit on my lap.
"What's your name, little girl?" I asked.
"I'm Christy," she whispered, with a shy smile.
"Hello, Christy," I said. "Have you been a good girl?"
"Not always," she confessed. "But I try not to make my mummy angry."
"That's good," I replied. "So what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas."
"Well," she said, hesitantly, "I don't want anything for myself..."
"You don't?" I asked. "That's unusual."
"No. I don't want anything for myself," she repeated, "but I would like it if you could make sure my mummy's not lonely on Christmas day."
"Won't you be able to keep your mummy company on Christmas day?" I asked.
"No. Not this year," she answered. "This year it is my daddy's turn to have me at Christmas time, and I'm afraid mummy will be lonely."
"Well, I think your mummy is very lucky to have a little girl like you," I told her.
"Will you make sure that my mummy doesn't get lonely?" she insisted.
"Which is your mummy?" I asked, looking over at the line of parents.
"She's the pretty one in the blue dress," Christy replied, pointing to an attractive brunette in her thirties.
"Well, I'll certainly see what I can do," I replied. "And I'll make sure to leave something nice for you at your daddy's house too, O.K."
"O.K." she replied and jumped off of my knee and ran back to her mother.
Nothing more might have come of this incident if I hadn't been enjoying a beer at my local pub a week later and seen Christy's mum enter and sit at a nearby table.
"Hello," I greeted her.
"Do I know you?" she asked, suspiciously.
"Oh, of course, you won't recognise me without the beard. I'm the Santa from the Quick Shop department store. Christy told me all about you. She's very fond of her mum," I explained.
"I'm glad she let you know that," she replied. "The amount of trouble she gives me, you would never guess."
"The name's David," I said, putting down my beer and extending my hand.
"Sue," she replied. Her hand was soft and warm.
"Christy told me she didn't care what she got for Christmas. She was only thinking of you," I told her.
"Thinking of me?" she queried.
"She is afraid you will be lonely without her at Christmas time," I explained.
"Well, it will be peaceful," she replied. "No, she is probably right. Christmas is a time for children, and it will be rather flat without her."
"Maybe Santa will come and keep you company," I suggested.
"Mmmmm," she responded. "I like rich men with beards."
"Rich?" I queried.
"Well, he can afford all those presents, can't he," she laughed.
"Well, this Santa is not rich," I put in. "If he weren't so poor he wouldn't have smelly little children sitting on his lap all day. One of them puked on me the other day. It is definitely not what I was trained for."
"And what were you trained for?" she wanted to know.
"Shakespeare," I replied.
"An actor?" she asked.
"Four years at the National Institute of Dramatic Arts. Mel Gibson went there, you know," I explained.
"I bet he was never a shopping centre Santa," she teased me.
"All right," I replied. "Don't rub it in."
"I take it that it doesn't pay too well?" she questioned me.
"No. But I have another job at nights," I told her. "I'm a stripper. Tonight's my night off."
"A stripper? I'd like to see that," she laughed. "I've never been to a male strip show. Do you do the "full monty"?"
"Of course," I replied.
Her face went a charming shade of red as she contemplated her next question. "When you are stripping...?" she asked, tentatively.
"Yes," I encouraged her.
"Do you ever get, you know...stiff?" she finished, giggling like a school girl.
"Once or twice when I was doing private shows, it almost happened. Due to the more intimate atmosphere," I explained, trying to sound professional. "But in a club it's different. It's very loud and I have to concentrate on evading the customer's hands."
"I would have thought you would enjoy having them feel you up," she smiled naughtily.
"I might do," I replied, "but it's against the rules, and I don't like the customers to get in trouble."
"What about you?" she asked. "Are you allowed to touch the customers?"
"No," I explained. "If they pay for a lap dance, I sit in their lap and kiss them on the cheek, but I am not allowed to touch them with my hands."
"Your management sound like spoil sports to me," she declared, putting her hand on my knee meaningfully.
"Maybe you would like a personal demonstration for Christmas," I flirted. "I'm a lot less particular than my management."
"Sounds intriguing," she replied. "Why don't you drop by and surprise me. My address is 35 Heron Way."
"I'd be delighted," I replied.
So that was how I came to be standing in front of 35 Heron Way on Christmas Eve, feeling a little tipsy after having administered rather too much courage. I was dressed in my Father Christmas outfit.
No. 35 was a big house, and fairly old. I was surprised to find that it had a large, old-fashioned style chimney. Like Oscar Wilde, I am a person who can "resist anything but temptation." Thus, after a modicum of contemplation, I began stealthily climbing the drain-pipe. I had had a good deal of practise with this kind of activity when I had played Romeo in my second year of acting classes.
It didn't take me long to reach the roof. Then I set off towards the chimney, testing each foothold carefully, aware of the possibility of loose tiles. Soon, I was climbing over the top of the chimney and lowering myself down. With my knees pressed tightly against one side and my back against the other, I was able to wriggle my way down. Of course, I hadn't thought until now about the likelihood that I would end up covered in soot. Well, it was too late to worry about that now, and anyway, I had my t-shirt and jeans on under the hot Father Christmas outfit.
What was more troublesome was the effect of the soot on my nose. Halfway down I let out the most enormous sneeze. Losing my grip, I fell sideways for a couple of feet and hit my head noisily on the side of the chimney. I was horrified to find that, in this uncomfortable position, I was stuck.
"Shit! What was that?" came Sue's voice from down below.
I tried to say something to reassure her, but it just came out an indecipherable mumble in my current cramped position.
I heard Sue pick up the telephone. "Hello, is that the police?" she asked. "Someone is trying to break into my house.... Yes, that's right. I can hear him coming down the chimney.... No, this is not a prank call! I live at 35 Heron Way. And please hurry."
Eventually, I managed to straighten myself up and start easing my way down the chimney again, but now my muscles were sore and I couldn't grip the sides so tightly.
"Ahhhhhhh!" I screamed, as I came hurtling down the chimney and rolled out of the fireplace, feeling like one big bruise.
Sue ran over and pulled off my beard.
"Oh, my god! It's you!" she cried. "You idiot!"
"Seemed a good idea at the time," I replied, rubbing my sore knees.
"And now I've called the police," she said.
Just at that moment, there was a loud knock at the door. She went over to answer it. It was then that I heard a familiar voice.
"What appears to the be trouble Miss?" Debbie asked.
"I'm sorry," replied Sue. "It turned out to be a friend playing a trick on me."
"Sounds like a rather irresponsible trick if it led to us being called," she replied. Then she turned to her male partner, "You can go and wait in the car, I think. This shouldn't take long."
"Perhaps I can offer you a cup of tea?" Sue asked, politely.
"Thank you," Debbie replied, "I'd appreciate that. Now where is the culprit?"
"It seemed a good idea at the time," I repeated, rather half-heartedly this time.
"Oh, so it's you, is it?" she replied, shaking her head.
"You told me I needed to be more adventurous," I replied.
"Adventurous is one thing. Idiotic is another," she replied, sitting down on the sofa.
"Do you two know each other?" asked Sue, when she returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea.
"Debbie is my girlfriend," I replied.
"Your ex-girlfriend," she corrected me.
Sue began laughing hysterically. I put it down to the relief of nervous tension.
"I think Mr. Claus here needs to be punished for this little misadventure," Debbie told Sue. "Frank and I were just about to finish our shift anyway. I think I'll send him home. Then perhaps we can put David under a little temporary citizen's arrest. Totally unofficial you understand."
"That sounds like fun," Sue declared.
"For us it will be," Debbie replied, implying that the enjoyment might not extend to myself.
She went out and told Frank that the situation was under control but that she would stay and chat awhile.
"David promised to come over and do a striptease for me," Sue told Debbie on her return.
"Really? A striptease, you say?" Debbie responded.
"It's his other job," Sue explained.
"Well, well.