The money box and the Santa shop Something funny happened here last week. Daughter number one has been accumulating a quantity of small-change since she became cashed up from her part-time KFC job. So she announces that she is going to the shops to buy a money box. Now this family has had a lot of experience with money boxes. As observers, we parents have learned that they are quite useless for the purpose they are intended. Yes, there have been a lot of money boxes through here and not one has survived more than a day or so.
Much as I am ashamed to admit this, as far as money boxes are concerned, this place is the sort of kleptomaniac-inhabited den that Ali Baba discovered in his travels. There are eyes everywhere - watching, waiting! Waiting, watching – ever watching!
So daughter number one brings her new money box home and the first thing she does is show it around. A tin can with a slot in the top. Just so there was no mistaking its purpose, the Chinese manufacturers had printed a picture of an Australian $20 note on the side. I said she was crazy, which didn’t go down too well. I explained that all someone had do do to get at the contents was to stick a knife in the slot and slide the coins out. How come my daughter had reached fifteen years of age and didn’t know this? Her education has been neglected.
She dismissed my advice and retired to her bedroom to deposit her loot in the burglar’s friend. There is a distinctive sound about coins being dropped into a money box. A sort of reassuring sound that all is safe and well. But of course it isn’t. There is also a distinctive sound when a money box is tipped upside down; and when someone inserts a knife in the slot and fishes about to extract the loot.
Well the next afternoon there came an almighty roar from my daughter’s bedroom. The evidence was plain to see. There was the empty money box, and a alongside it a knife. All the coins had vanished, as if into thin air. Maybe about ten dollars worth. We hadn’t heard anyone in there. A cat-burglar? Our two cats denied involvement. Now I can tell you this was not a happy time for my daughter. The accusations came thick and fast. Naturally, everyone else protested their innocence.
It was all the worse because I refused to launch an inquisition. My view was that if anyone was silly enough to buy such a dinky money box and then tell everyone about it, they were simply uttering a challenge to explore the contents. At least it hadn’t been opened with a can opener - something I remember from another occasion several years ago. Same crime, different actors. And then there was the beautiful ceramic piggy bank - with a rubber stopper in the bottom. That wasn’t very secure either.
The money hasn’t been seen since. It is stashed somewhere really safe. I suspect the culprit is daughter number three, aged six. She is a clever little minx. Then again it could be son number six, aged ten. He seems to have been a bit more manic than usual over the last couple of days. It is useless my asking them. No one ever confesses to anything around here, even under the most dire threats. The standard answer is, “It wasn’t me.” and that’s that. My guess is that the money will soon rematerialise in the form of numerous Christmas presents purchased from the local
Cost Plus franchise. Good always prevails over evil.
Yesterday afternoon my wife and I had about two hours to spare. She has been itching to visit a local shop specialising in tacky Christmas stuff. It only opens for about three months every year. The first thing I noticed was all the signs saying things like, “Parents, control your children.” and “Do not touch!” This are of course psychological triggers which force people to do the exact opposite.
Now the baby Jesus had no business in this shop. The place was about Christmas - Santa’s Christmas. There were effigies of him everywhere, thousands of them. Stuffed ones, blow-up ones, glow-in-the-dark ones, mechanical ones which scurried jerkily up and down a ladder. Too much bad taste is never enough in this place, but the worst was a flashing Santa. Not one with flashing lights, but a perverted one which whizzed open a raincoat to reveal his polar regions.
Chinese factories make all this bizarre stuff for the western consumption. I wonder what thoughts of economic domination run through the Celestial minds?
There was also a dark room which displayed a whole swag of coloured lights and mechanical Christmas robots - nodding penguins, rearing reindeer and inevitable Santas going “Ho! Ho! Ho! To save electricity everything was left off, but a small sign by the door invited visitors to operate a single switch to start the action. It gave me an extraordinary sense of dominance to flick it and suddenly everything was forced into a performance. Flick it off and they go silent. I was fascinated. I did it several times. On! Off! On! Off! All the makings of a creepy horror film were in that room. With the switch off, you could just make out all the things watching you. Watching, waiting – ever waiting - ever watching. Brrrrr!
The life sized effigies elsewhere were really spooky too, not only of Santa, but of old people. As if some entrepreneur had visited a nursing home and made some casts. My guess is that people without families buy these things at Christmas to keep them company. “Would you like another slice of Spam grandfather? No? Well I’ll have it then.”
We didn’t buy anything from the Christmas Shop. We had overdosed enough on tacky Santas.
But, speaking of tacky Santas, my wife has informed me that I have to slip on the red suit for the kindergarten wind-up next week. I did this last year too. The teacher is really cute and always gives Santa a big hug and a bottle of wine at the end. Ho! Ho! Ho!
© MMIV Paul R. Weaver.
About the writerCheck out the index of my "common-man" monologues about survival in 21st century Australia – plus a little history occasionally. An original essay is added most days.
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
fremantlebiz's journal