Nobody likes the last Father Christmas
He is the last of his kind. Forgotten, spurned and uneaten. And now the Easter bunnies are coming. For the old Father Christmas in our house, this is bitter as hell.
He came proudly, full of hope and not alone. But as a special unit in a pack of five. Together with his brothers, he was supposed to make children's eyes sparkle during the cold Christmas season. Tear the red coat off his hollow body and have his head bitten off. Instead, he ended up unloved and lonely on the ground.
I noticed him weeks ago, in a corner of my son's room. There he lay, stoic look, a still optimistic smile on his face, shouldering his bag. Resignedly awaiting his fate. He waited while I regularly fished empty wrappers of other sweets out from under the bed.
As if he were made of broccoli
Gum, Head Bangers, Tiki. None of it got as old as Santa looked. I stood him up so that he couldn't be overlooked. Looking into the room. He continued to wait. The sweets came and went. The chocolate man remained untouched, as if he was made of broccoli.
I protected it from the first intense rays of sunshine of the year and otherwise left it to its fate of not even being second choice. Even the golden Lindt lettering on his coat didn't help. He wouldn't have grown old with us as a Lindor ball. But he wanted to be in the Christmas business.
Not an exclusive career choice, but a safe bet, he may have thought. So he became one of 164 million Santas made in Germany before moving from Aachen to Switzerland and retraining as Samichlaus. Now he is still standing there at the beginning of April. Like an old white man with a beard who no longer understands the world. And doesn't want to realise that his time is over.
Unloved and uneaten
I already knew in late summer, when I saw the first red coat brigade in the shop, that it wouldn't be much of a hit with my children. Nevertheless, the Sami lice smiled confidently, as if they knew that at some point, just before the festive season, I would collapse under their penetrating gaze and grab them. Which I did. But my five embarrassing purchases had no idea what was to come afterwards.
Being ignored is one thing. But the children also asked awkward questions. Is there palm oil in it? And is the cocoa fair trade? Well, how about it, Mr Father Christmas? Times have changed. I can understand if a chocolate man from the day before yesterday, who is slowly growing white fat ripe in his children's room, can no longer find his way in the here and now.
It started in the shop. Just who and what was standing next to him and his brothers on the shelves. Tanned hipsters with well-groomed cocoa butter beards from the factory. The ecologists with their organic and fair trade certifications. Young guys in freaky clothes popping colourful pills. Totally inappropriate for the dignity of the office. Nevertheless, they were bought and eaten.
Source: Screenshot Galaxus
This wouldn't have happened in the past. The youth of today no longer have any respect for traditions. But they are right about one thing: a good figure does not make a good chocolate. You can find it left and right, 365 days a year.
That's why he and his brothers continued to stand on their cocoa butter legs and had to worry about being melted down into Easter bunnies. As stubbornly as all industry associations deny this rumour, there must be something to it.
The rabbits are here
I suddenly realised that things can't go on like this when I saw a boy in Migros the other day pulling the biggest possible chocolate bunny from the shelf by its ears. "No, surely not!" shouted his father. Of course it is. He will buy. I will buy. Because the bunnies are there. From classic to freaky.
And there are lots of them. A lot of them. This will definitely break the old white man's heart of hip gold. Around 240 million see the light of day in his native Germany alone. In Switzerland, the figure is approximately 20 million.
Our Samichlaus went on sale bitter. And if he's bitter by now, at least he doesn't let on. But I've had enough. I ate his four brothers in March. Before I get my hands on the rabbits, I have to eat him. So in the end, what belongs together comes together.
Medieval white man, have mercy on me and lead the old white chocolate man to his destiny.
16 people like this article
Michael Restin
Senior Editor
Michael.Restin@digitecgalaxus.chSimple writer and dad of two who likes to be on the move, wading through everyday family life. Juggling several balls, I'll occasionally drop one. It could be a ball, or a remark. Or both.
5 comments
later