I’m not your Secret Santa – I’m your Secret Grinch

IT’S a few days into December and I’m beginning to think I’ve gotten away with it, that somehow this year with a general election, Brexit and the planet being FUBAR-ed we might be allowed a year’s respite from the forced ‘fun’ that is Secret Santa. Alas, it is not to be. I am packing up my things, ready to walk home from work in darkness and get into bed with my HWB (that’s hot water bottle, not whatever filth you were thinking), when the email arrives; the subject line fills me with dread: Secret Santa!!! My heart sinks and I walk home depressed, haunted by memories of last year’s office party Secret Santa. Our company is not huge, but still big enough we had to split up into groups of 10-15 to exchange gifts.

I don’t actually mind buying the gift, although I do think it’s a bit unnecessary when we’ve already turned most of the planet into a giant landfill and truthfully, who needs a fluffy oversized keyring or a pair of glittery socks from a Tube station gift shop? Not me mate.

Anyway, last year we all split into our separate groups and then had to watch as each person unwrapped their gift and then guessed who the giver was. By the third go I wanted to hurt someone with the novelty neon stapler I’d been gifted. By the 10th person I was ready to ingest the staples just so I could be excused.

I can’t let it happen again this year, so the Grinch in me takes over. “Great” I email straight back, “Here’s what we’ll do this year. Everyone bring your gift (£10 max) to the office next Friday and place on the snack table (we have a snack table). At 3pm everyone can claim their gift. If you are curious as to who bought yours, feel free to conduct your own investigations. Any complaints should be directed to the North Pole. x”