IT had been so much easier in the days when little girls wanted dollies and little boys an Action Man.

Now one had to tread carefully. Boys might be girls and girls might be boys or both might be neither. It meant an awful lot more thought, which was difficult for the old man.

That's not quite true, that it was easier then. The best days had been when his main responsibility was a fresh satsuma in the toe of a soft stocking with some little treats that would satisfy any child. A pre-season trip to Japan to collect the fruit had always been a lovely start to celebrations and Mrs Claus adored the bustle of Tokyo after 11 months of snowy wilderness.

The old irritating jingle wasn't quite correct. Mr Claus had very little to do with the compilation of the Naughty/Nice lists. Teams of elves performed surveillance on households throughout the year, reporting back to an elven-senate.

He had to smile at the reports of parents using him as a method of discipline for boisterous little ones. Didn't the parents know they were being watched too? Such arrogance.

Mr Claus had final say-so on which side of the ledger names would fall, checking it twice in that sense, he supposed.

The original version of the song included lyrics urging listeners to be charitable towards the less fortunate. These quite rapidly dropped out of circulation. How they could do with being brought back, he thought, as he surveyed the workshops.

The elves had returned with stories of banks where hungry families could go to collect parcels of food. They told of people sleeping out on the street because they had no homes to go to.

Oh ho, but delivering the Poopsie Unicorn Slime Surprise seemed so frivolous in contrast.

"Remember dear, you're bringing joy to people," Mrs Claus would tell him in these moments of reflection. Joy.

He quite missed his green suit. Blast that famous cola company and their expert marketing department. Changing his jacket and trousers to red in the 1930s had only served to emphasise the broken capillaries in his nose and cheeks, impossible to avoid when travelling at speed through freezing air. Sitting for long stretches didn't help the circulation either.

But even Santa was no match for early 20th century capitalism and, with the ever present risk of being spotted creeping by a Christmas tree, it was simpler to match people's expectations than cleave to the truth.

The truth was he was fearful of the future.

There had always been ups and downs but usually the Naughty/Nice ledgers contained a healthy mixture of political leaders. Each Christmas Eve he slipped down the chimney of No10, careful to avoid that blasted Chief Mouser trying to claw the pom pom from his hat, to leave a little gift for whoever was in charge.

This year, an event that pained him to think of, he had been forced to open the Coal Cellar. Much as the word Macbeth is never uttered in theatrical circles, the Coal Cellar is never named. The black, hard lump of carbon was waiting to be loaded on to his sleigh.

The elves had all refused to touch it and Rudolph was threatening a strike. Superstitious bunch, reindeer. What had to be done, had to be done. If he only showed strong and stable leadership, the deed would be complete and the coal loaded.

But to what reward? He felt like giving Bute House a swerve this year too.

On a personal level, Christmas Eves to come were looking to be miserable affairs. Minimum pricing would likely put paid to the nice drams he enjoyed in the more upmarket homes. He was fond of a Macallan, it made the cold night cosier, but he suspected soft drinks would replace the neat nip once the legislation came in.

Of course, the sugar tax would likely see off even a ginger beer. It would be a glass of water and the humans better watch out for the resulting blue ice, hadn't they?

Sweeping restrictions on sugary and fatty foods would likely limit the mince pies on offer. For the love of Krampus, he better not be expected to share a carrot with the team.

But all that was if he would be able to enter British air space at all. He shuddered as he thought of the old days of visas. Next year the bringing of joy would be dependent on queues at Dover, if joy could be found amidst economic collapse, of course.

Prancer and Dancer claim their grandfather hailed from peatland in the Shannon basin and were confident of an EU passport. He hadn't the heart to tell them that reindeer became extinct in Ireland 9500 years ago, so the connection was likely too tenuous to count. There would be time yet for that conversation.

In the distance sleigh bells were being lightly lifted by a fine wind. He felt very tired. He surveyed the waiting empty Naughty Lists, stockpiled for next year on the advice of his Special Advising Elves.

"Merry Christmas to all," he muttered. "And to all, good bloody luck."