Dear Mr Claus, I apologise for interrupting your, allegedly, well-earned (we'll come to that) rest, but I've been putting off writing this letter for as long as I could.
Did you really think I needed five pairs of socks this Christmas? The three shirts were fine. Two of the four ties might match something and at least some of the five belts will come in useful, I'm sure, but what were you thinking of by giving me a pair of trousers that wouldn't have fitted me 20 years ago? After all, it wasn't today or yesterday that your own waistline threatened to catch up with your age! Svelte you are not, and neither am I any more.
As for all the after-shave - are you trying to tell me something? You must know by now that the word "Boss" is simply not compatible with my nature, even if it smells nice and is qualified by the name "Hugo". And before this I had thought Aramis was one of the Three Musketeers.
As for "Intimately Beckham", In my innocence I used to believe it was named after the original Old Spice girl herself, Victoria. But it's not. It's after him - former England captain, former Man U player, soon-to-be former Real Spaniard and would be LADB. "Fragrance" is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of him.
And I don't even use after-shave. But, really, worst of all was sending me the baby. In my letter to you last month I explicitly asked for "a body like the new 007". I was referring to the new James Bond. I did not ask for "a baby like the new 07". Such a miserable little creature too! Full of wind, always wet and squally, day and night, keeping everyone awake. He'll never come to anything. You have to take him back. And, before you respond, yes, I have spoken - with little satisfaction - to your complaints department. That is, when I finally got through. It seemed hours before I even got to "Press 5 for (complaints about) socks". What a coincidence it was 5 too! Your elves there were reluctant to admit that they had got anything wrong at all - typical bureaucrats - but eventually they had to concede when confronted with the only thing that defeats them, paper. Was I glad I kept a copy of my letter to you! They also had to agree that last year, the year before, and the year before (I kept those letters too) I had explicitly asked that no socks, no ties, no belts, and no after-shave be given to me at Christmas, having accumulated enough of each since the old millennium to last me through this one. (Even if I never use after-shave, but in case I might.)
The elves, of course, came up with the usual explanation for getting it wrong again - "pressure of work".
Mr Claus, it really is not good enough. Clearly, either the elves are incompetent or you are not employing enough of them to cope with the workload. Ultimately, responsibility rests with you.
Hitherto I always have resisted complaining to you directly about these matters, believing you must already have too much on your plate. But enough is enough! I mean, how could anyone confuse "a body like the new 007" with "a baby like the new 07"? That is sheer negligence. And it is your responsibility. When taken into account with everything else you got wrong this year (again), I feel you should consider your position.
If that has been my experience, what must be the total when everyone else is considered? What we are talking about here is chaos. You are failing to discharge your duties. Indeed - it has to be said - there is something seriously undemocratic about your situation anyway. You were elected by no one; have held office for as long as anyone can remember and show no sign of leaving it; you are not accountable to anyone; and there is no obvious transparency about anything you do.
You operate with such secrecy that the nearest personal evidence I have yet had as to your existence is a story my brother told when he was six about how he heard your sleigh bells that Christmas morning.
I know there have been those presents every year and there were, admittedly, always your teeth marks in the slice of Christmas cake my mother had left for you. And, of course, the drop of sherry (Bristol Cream) you left in the bottom of a glass beside the cake.
I never did understand where the lipstick on that glass came from. It was as near to "intimately Santy" as I ever got. Surely you don't wear lipstick? I ignored that uncomfortable question for years. But it is just another indication of how very little we know about you and illustrates also how very unacceptable this situation is in the modern democratic world.
In fact more was known about some who were hanged recently. Maybe we should ask George W Bush to look at the situation? Surely Lapland should be "democratised" too! This mention of President Bush is not meant as a threat, but it is a warning of just what could happen if you and your administration don't mend your ways.
Meanwhile you should get rid of January. There is no more miserable month in the year - 31 Mondays back-to-back. It is the pits, with its pious resolutions which rarely survive a week and leave intact all that weight accumulated over Christmas.
January is starvation and exercise on dark, windy, wet evenings, and worse. It is a month for gyms, full of more penitents than you'd meet in Lough Derg or on the top of Croagh Patrick. January is the new Lent, and the old Lent is never far behind.
What a way to start a new year!