I have always enjoyed whistling and while I am aware it can annoy, I try to restrict it to times when I am alone. Musicals were a favourite, the old Broadway extravaganzas – Fiddler on the Roof; South Pacific; A White Christmas and when preoccupied, I sometimes slip into the bigger oratorios – Handel, Bach, even a few of the hymns from my youth. As the Festive Season approaches, my repertoire switches, favouring Christmas carols. I was quite proud of my Silent Night’s descant.
But that all changed in an instant – a train set’s loco flew high, and fast; I ducked, but not low enough to miss a full-frontal impact. A broken nose, a gash to the top of my ear, and an eye tooth, never found, presumably sailing off into the dark!
It had been a hectic couple of months, the factory’s production capacities stretched to the limit. But everything came together: they always did! Final preparations proceeded, presents were stowed, the animals fed and watered, the vehicle serviced and assessed as ready to fly.
I always scheduled a few hours of downtime before departure. This was a time for some well-earned, recreational celebrations.
The party was in full swing, the egg-nog flying out from the bar. By ten o’clock, the booze was deadening our senses. The roar of the wind, the blizzard building outside, sleet threatening a ‘white-out’, but inside, we were close to legless. It was cosy, carol-singing, back-slapping, a huge trifle being demolished and I was splashing out like never before; nothing spared for the workers on this final night.
Against advice, but at the appointed hour, I climbed aboard. A cheery wave, I was whistling a particularly pleasing rendition of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. There was a bit of a wobble at the controls, but I was off, into the night.
Wherever I went disasters were unfolding. Unseasonal weather saw floods across Europe, fierce dust storms covered the ruins of the Middle East, floods again over much of Asia. God knows what I was going to find by the time I got to Australia.
Reports vary, but in subsequent interviews, I admitted that I could not adequately explain what happened. I was making my final approach into Palm Beach, Florida, just above a sprawling, orange, stucco mansion. A gust caught the sleigh and down I went: head over turkey. Toys went flying, I sustained a couple of nasty cuts, my tooth gone, Rudolf’s nose blackened, and the cops decided to charge me with driving under the influence.
Despite my protestations, I spent the remainder of that evening in the lockup. Millions of households woke the following morning to toyless trees. All hell broke loose, the media had a field day conjecting who might be responsible.
Political leaders came out belligerently; blaming the Russians, while others thought the proposed Chinese tariff embargos were behind the tragedy. Children were distraught, and parents were desperately on the back foot, joining a national clamour of indignation.
I never whistled again!