The Good Life
Anyone who thinks Santa parades are for kids should don some gingham and head to Carterton.
Ican’t remember the last time I went to a Christmas parade. Perhaps it was in Kaitaia, where I went to primary school, circa 1973. I probably wore my best gingham frock and had my hair in pigtails and was overcome with excitement. There would have been, surely, a smiley Santa throwing, with deadly aim, Mackintosh’s Toffees and Minties. From an adult perspective, you do have to wonder a bit about the wisdom of having jolly, sweaty men dressed in bright red polyester in the heat of summer chucking hard candy at small children.
There is no good reason to go to a Christmas parade as a childless adult who would not risk a toffee for fear of an exorbitant dental bill. But here we were at the Carterton parade on a hot December afternoon. I was wearing my best gingham top. My expectations were not high. We were here because Charlotte, Miles the sheep farmer’s new shepherdess, is donkey-sitting for Pru, who is the Wairarapa chairperson of the Donkey and Mule Protection Trust. Two of Pru’s nine rescue donkeys were to be in the parade. Charlotte would be leading Lacey. Pru was in charge of Portia, or the other way around. Portia is very beautiful and she knows it, which is a polite way of saying that Portia is a bit up herself. You can forgive a lot of a donkey with such beautiful eye lashes.
Charlotte, a born and bred Aucklander who has lived her entire life in an inner-city apartment, has taken to country life with infectious alacrity. She has adopted Jimmy, the crippled lamb, tickles pigs and talks to chickens. With her hair in pigtails and wearing cut-off denim dungarees and steel-capped boots, she goes off to milk Miles’ sheep and make his sheep-milk cheeses. She looks amazing: the epitome of tough country-girl chic.
She put on a pretty gingham frock (we country folk are fond of gingham, it seems) and a Santa hat for the parade. Lacey wore tinsel.
One particularly enthusiastic bystander cheered and whooped and gave the thumbs up to all the paraders – even the truck advertising a giant rasher of bacon, which might be Christmassy if you have a penchant for balls of stuffing wrapped in bacon, which she apparently did. She may have been wearing gingham.
The floats were fabulous. There were kids in cages. There were kids dressed up as Christmas crackers. There was a steam tractor. The medical centre went all out with its float. It featured an evil Santa operating on a man who appeared to be already dead. Santa wielded a large bloody knife. Greg shouted, “Do you do nose jobs?”, and evil Santa leered and brandished his knife. This float should have been followed by the local butcher’s float, or the local funeral home. Instead, a charming, cheery crew from the Carterton retirement village came next.
The couple beside us had a plan. They didn’t have kids with them either, but they attached themselves to a bunch of them. That way they’d get lots of lollies. The plan worked, and they kindly shared the spoils with us. I didn’t get a toffee, but I did get a severed-finger lolly.
The donkeys won first prize in the best non-business float category despite Lacey holding up the parade when somebody fed her an apple mid-parade. (All right, it may have been me.) We were all as proud as punch.
The parade was brilliant. I award it first prize in the best Christmas parade ever. The only disappointment was that the hot-dog truck wasn’t serving battered hot dogs on a stick. I know because I ran up and ordered one and had Fruit Bursts chucked at me. I don’t much care for Fruit Bursts, but at Christmas time, it is the thought that counts.
The medical centre went all out with a float featuring an evil Santa operating on a man who appeared to be already dead.