Good Elf

In between having my head squeezed on the CLD ™ and planning how to assassinate medical receptionists I have been receiving the last, few, vital Christmas gifts  I need to make the children’s Christmas go with a bang and not a whimper.

There was much trauma last week when it turned out that someone at the Post Office had nicked off with Tallulah’s Hannah Montana scooter on the pretext that it had been ‘lost’ in the chaos caused by the snow, and not nicked, so that he could get on his rounds more quickly, more efficiently and with Miley Cyrus’s grinning faced clamped between his post masterly thighs. 

As there is no way of tracking parcels sent through Royal Mail by first class post, we were comprehensively screwed.  Luckily, the company I ordered it from were very nice when I burst into tears to the man on their helpline after I had been on hold for thirty minutes while they played me Marc Almond singing torch songs. Thank God they connected me before we got into the Jacques Brel years.  I love Marc Almond and his guttersnipey little ways, but there is only so much of him I can take at nine in the morning.  He is best imbibed with cognac and a fat, Cuban cigar, rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens, at about three in the morning in a smoky bar.

Anyway, the very sympathetic man on the other end of the phone correctly interpreted my honkings, sniffings and bleatings, and sent me a new scooter, at the company’s expense, via a trackable courier.

Hoorah. Tallulah will still love me.

It is a dubious honour I know, but I cannot resist her evil ways.

Then there were the elf ears.

Tilly wanted elf ears for Christmas she confided to me, one day last week as we were chatting of this and that, and sealing wax and ships and stuff.  I was determined to get them for her.  I want to be the sort of mother who produces elf ears at short notice.

I found some on Amazon, believe it or not.  They will soon be selling every single thing in the entire world.  This is very true.  I should be scared by this fact, but a woman searching feverishly for stick on, latex elf ears at short notice is not in a position to worry about global domination by evil corporations.  She is just in a position to shout: ‘Thank you Cheezus!’ and kiss the keyboard in relief.

The elf ears were ordered and would be with me before Christmas.  I was happy.  I was, in fact, elated.

Then I received the ears with remarkable speed.  Clearly no postmen are interested in looking like elves. They just want speed, pure, crazy, Hannah Montana, foot to the pedal, speed.

Yeah.

So, the elf ears came. All good.  I stashed them away on top of the mounting pile of weird and wonderful items that make up my gift pile. I forgot about them.

Then I received an e-mail.  It was from Amazon, but it was in German.

Despite having lived in Germany for four months, my grasp of German is pitiful.  I used to be able to buy stamps, hold my own in a queue in Norma, and order four hundred flavours of ice cream.  I can now say, ‘excuse me’ and remember that zimt is German for cinnamon. That is all.

I was extremely nervous of this e-mail, which went on alarmingly for some considerable time.

I thought about sticking it in one of those translation websites but was afraid it would come out something like this:

‘Dear Mrs. Wheatley

Thank you for having the order of our pikelet toasting fork monkey.

I am glad that the sun is shining on your bilious headwear.  Granny is a lemon.

Love

Germany.

I was no further forward.

There was an attachment.

I did not want to open it in case it had a picture of someone with an eighteen foot long penis rogering a donkey, and Jason murdered me for infecting the laptop with porn viruses.

I clicked onto Amazon’s site and found that the message was legitimately sitting in my account.  I opened the attachment. It was an invoice for my elf ears. 

Phew.

I gather that the e-mail said in a very efficient and always long winded German way.

‘Dear Mrs. Wheatley

Thank you for ordering our elf ears.  Aren’t they lovely?  I bet you are really glad you ordered them from us, and not those people who lost your Hannah Montana Scooter?  We are, of course, German, and therefore highly efficient and very good at everything we do, even when we are making and delivering latex elf ears to you in England.

Enjoy being an elf.

Love

Germany.’

So that’s alright then.

I have decided against replying to them, given the fact that it would say:

Mein leibe Deutschevolks,

Danke schon fur mein ‘elf ears’

Enschuldigen fur mein schlecht Deutsche.

Katy

p.s. zimt

I don’t think it will help Anglo German relations any.  I will just draw a line under it and move on, elf ears intact.

Now I just have to go and track down a Mr. Benn Dvd which I only bought my son because I wanted to watch it, and he won’t care less if it ever comes, and I will have rounded up all my errant parcels.

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