Dicing With Death

Forget about all those in-law jokes. My daughter-in-law, Annette, is intelligent, practical and resourceful. My son is lucky to have her, and so are we.

Their home address is in what must be one of Australia's friendliest streets. It has no side-streets and, although not quite a cul-de-sac, it runs north for six hundred metres before tapering into a fire trail. The road is so narrow, and there are so many cars parked along the ragged verge that passes for a footpath that motorists are obliged to make way for each other so they can pass with safety.

Everybody seems to work comfortably with the general lack of lebensraum which has probably added to the very real sense of community that is obvious, even to visitors. During the 'nineties, this camaraderie was enhanced by the disproportionately large number of children who lived and played together. All this bonhomie culminated each year in a Christmas party when the street was unofficially closed off, and everybody joined in—as contributors, participants, or both.

In 1995 Annette asked me to be the Santa Claus.

I couldn't see any problems but when I arrived I learned that they wanted me to ride a horse. Her name was Sophie—obviously named for Colonel Potter's horse in M*A*S*H.

I don't ride, but Sophie's owner assured me that I'd be OK. Sophie was very good with people and she'd been out for a long ride that afternoon to burn off any excess energy.

Sophie was a picture. A white mare, she had been immaculately groomed and was bedecked with tinsel and tinkling bells. She was beautiful.

Naturally I agreed, but as I approached her I couldn't help noticing how her nostrils flared and her eyes widened. I wondered if she was frightened, or insane, or whether all horses behaved like that.

Everything went well until I climbed into the saddle. That was when Sophie rocketed straight up into the air. I didn't realise until much later that she had never seen a man in a red Santa suit before, let alone had one on her back.

She bucked around the yard, trying to brush me off on a low branch and I couldn't find the release lever for the ejector seat. I can't claim to have dismounted—the third time she put all four feet on the ground at the same time, I just dived.

What happened next was something I'd only ever seen in old Rodeo movies. Sophie, now frenzied, pig-rooted around the yard and had people scattering for their lives. Only her owner tried, unsuccessfully, to bring her under control. Then Sophie saw me lying on the ground, still clearly at her mercy, and came back to finish me off.

Somebody dragged me out of the way and I lived to tell the tale.

They got me into the house and tried to strip off my Santa suit. I was nearly sixty and they probably thought I'd be too shaken to go on with the job but—hey!—this was show biz, and my audience wanted the real thing—not some last-minute stand-in. Word went out to the waiting throng that Santa had been delayed.

It took about twenty minutes to clean all the twigs and leaves out of my whiskers and fur but I was finally ready to go and the rest of the experience was a pleasure. I walked up the street calling out, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" and "Merry Christmas" with three or four little kids hanging off each hand, all wanting a piece of Father Christmas. Of course, I tried to ignore the occasional sly voice from the back of the crowd asking, "Where's your horse, Santa?"

But do you remember that I said Annette was resourceful?

While I did my buck-jumping exhibition with everybody in a mad panic, there stood Annette, camera in hand, calmly taking photographs for the family album. Unfortunately she didn't realise how high we were going and cut my head off in all of them, otherwise I'd put them here for you to see.

Or perhaps she didn't have the album in mind at all. If things had turned out differently those photographs would have been invaluable at the inquest.