Chapter 1
Santa Hates Christmas

The man obviously spit-shines his shoes. Leonard is a tiny reflection in them, right near the tips. It makes him feel insignificant, and that makes him angry.

“Do you care to explain what happened?” the impeccably dressed man with the shiny dress shoes is saying. “Mr. McCoy… Mr. McCoy?”

“No,” Leonard mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“No,” he reiterates, finally meeting the gaze that has been intent upon him since he had been herded into the room, “I don’t care to explain.” It’s a very childish part of him that tacks on a bit spitefully, “And who in their right mind wears a waistcoat when responding to an emergency?”

Leonard’s current (and probably soon-to-be-ex) employer recoils the tiniest amount, pressing his mouth into a thin line.

Across the room, someone sighs.

Leonard grips the armrests of his wooden chair and refuses to acknowledge anyone else. It’s better for all of them this way.

His affronted boss begins again. “Without a satisfactory explanation, you force my hand.”

“So fire me.”

This time the aggravation for which Leonard is responsible is audible. “I assure you I do not bluff.”

“Yeah, well, it’s almost Christmas anyway.” Leonard pulls out one red glove and a curly white beard from a sack he had made a point to bring for this conversation. “If I’m out a few days early, what’s it matter?”

“It will matter when you do not receive your paycheck.”

Leonard straightens, hardly able to believe his ears. “Is that a threat? I worked the last three days! You have to pay me for that.”

The bastard cocks an eyebrow. “You did not read the fine print of your employment contract.”

It isn’t a question.

Leonard may be in deep shit, but that’s a low blow. Balling up the glove in his hand, he considers how quickly he can bridge the distance between them. “Listen here. All things aside, I worked. I get paid. You don’t pay, and I’ll sue you!”

The bastard cocks his other eyebrow.

Leonard comes up out of his chair, then.

This time, the person who sighs also raises his both of his hands in a gesture of peace-making. “Whoa, enough,” he says to Leonard and Leonard’s adversary. “Bones, put down the glove.”

“Not until I slap him with it!” Leonard snarls.

“I find your violent demeanor to be cliché,” is the arrogant rejoinder.

“Bite me,” snaps the would-be Santa Claus.

The third man begins to edge between them. “Guys, let’s talk it out—and for the record, I find it extremely awkward that I’m the rational one here.”

“Shut up, Jim,” they say.

Jim, as identified by his companions, pauses to blink and consider the fact that (dual order aside) he has been told to shut up.

He surprises them by saying, “On one condition.”

Leonard is not alone when he confronts Jim with a wary eye.

“What’s the condition?” he asks.

Jim tucks his hands into his jacket pockets and looks particularly smug. “That you shake hands.”

“No.”

“You’re crazy!”

Jim’s smugness remains undiminished.

Leonard eyes the fool a moment longer before he turns back to the man he still wants to slap. “I don’t like you, Spock,” he says. “However, I like Jim even less.” He sticks out his hand.

Spock just looks at the hand.

“Think of it as the lesser of two evils,” Leonard adds persuasively.

“And after the handshake?”

Leonard looks the man dead in the eyes. “After Jim shuts up, I’ll tell you what happened.”

They shake hands.

Leonard takes his seat again, this time putting everything back into the sack, tying it off, and setting it down between his feet.

Jim murmurs, “Thank god.” Leonard and Spock turn as one to stare at him, and he obligingly mimes zipping his mouth before he sits himself in a cross-legged position on top of Spock’s desk.

Leonard sighs through his nose and begins his tale of woe.

 

“Four score and seven—no, wait, only two weeks ago…”

 

Leonard Horatio McCoy is hired to play Santa Claus for the ninth consecutive year in a row.

In a way, he almost doesn’t believe it. It’s not the worst job he could have; it’s just that he is the worst at it. Yet, as he accepts his costume from a skeptical woman with the name tag of Nyota Uhura, something in him relaxes that has been coiled up tight for nearly a year.

“If it doesn’t fit,” he is told, “just let me know. I can reorder the suit in your size.”

“In Santa’s size,” Leonard corrects. “I didn’t grow a potbelly this year, sorry. Got something I can use for that?”

The woman’s lips twitch. “We have a series of pregnancy bellies for our female mannequins.”

Leonard grimaces. Santa’s not carrying that kind of package in his abdomen, just a lot of cookie-dough fat. “I’ll think of something,” he hedges.

“You do that,” she says, looking down at her watch. “Mr. Spock told me that you start on Friday. Please come in an hour before we open and I will walk you through the setup. He tells me you’re an experienced Claus. Since I doubt the way we do things is any different than other Santa Lines, you should be fine.”

Leonard doesn’t need the reassurance if that’s what she is attempting to do for him but he nods anyway. “Friday, an hour early. Got it.” After turning away, he doesn’t quite manage to make it to the door before her voice reaches him again.

“Oh, and Mr. McCoy?”

He glances back at her.

“Mr. Spock has likely explained the rules but let me outline them for you once more: we expect punctuality and—” Here, her eyes rake over him. “—a suitably festive appearance.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Will you be my superior?”

The question seems to take her by surprise. “No. Mr. Spock likes to oversee a majority of departments in the store himself, yours included.”

That’s a good thing, Leonard thinks. She’s probably a hardass, and the first time he meanders in smelling of some kind of liquor, she won’t hesitate to toss him out on his ear.

Uhura’s eyes narrow at him slightly as if she can guess what he is thinking.

“Friday morning,” he says again, anxious to be out from under her stare. “Early.” And then he is gone, whatever else the woman might have said kept at bay by the swish of department store doors as they spit Leonard out into a parking lot.

He stops just beyond the first row of cars to take in the environment. There’s a coolness to the air that does not irritate his bones. Maybe he should have come to the Sunshine State sooner. Winter here might be tolerable this year.

When one hand unerringly finds an item in his pocket, a token, he grasps it momentarily before letting it go.

Well, Leonard amends silently, as tolerable as any Christmas can be to a man like him.

~~~

The motel is cheap, and like all motels inviting only in price. There is a lull of voices, his neighbors, through the wall. He can’t quite make out the conversation, but that’s a good thing. Neighbors who yell mean trouble, and while Leonard may be living a motel for the entirety of December, he didn’t come here to buy trouble.

He opens his duffel bag and contemplates the contents before digging out a sweatshirt and zipping it shut again. The bag contains nothing valuable, at least not beyond the meager set of clothing he brought, and so there is no need to do anything other than drop it to the floor.

Through the years, he has learned a few things about the world that an idyllic childhood had never taught him: you never own something that you can’t live without, and you never expect someone won’t covet what you do own. The unpleasant truth of temporary living on the poorer side of a city is that no one thinks much about jimmying open a lock to help themselves to someone else’s belongings; moreover, nobody will bother to report it.

“It’s just a month,” he reminds his reflection in the cracked mirror about the dresser. Then he is moving on, finding somewhere else that he can be a real person again while his wound is open and draining—until the next season, that is.

Until next season.

The man in the mirror smiles thinly, with no amusement whatsoever. He doesn’t believe in hope or the future. As of now, he is St. Nick.

~~~

Bright and early makes a man want to kill somebody. Leonard steps out the bus with one heavy footfall at a time, his customary scowl doubly foreboding. He drained the last drop of gas station coffee out of his paper cup around half an hour ago and has been gnawing on the cup’s edge ever since.

With a temper brewing like a storm cloud, he strides for the employee entrance by a loading dock at the back of the department store. The wide metal door is rolled halfway up, an indication that someone has probably been on site long before Leonard was blinking sleepily in the shower.

As if his thoughts conjure the ghost of that person, something hits the inside of the dock door with a clank before it drops to the concrete, rolls to the edge and drops the pavement below. Not a moment later a small man comes scuttling out after it, jumps down from the dock ledge and plucks it up, turning back to bellow through the gap, “You missed me!” Then he cackles and chucks the object back into the darkness of the warehouse.

Leonard, having stopped to take this all in, pivots away and quickens his pace as he heads for the side door.

But he’s been noticed.

“Hey, you!”

Leonard grunts a tiny “Hi” as he jerks on the door handle of the employee entrance.

“Hello there, wait, don’t—”

Instead of the door opening beyond more than a thin sliver, a blaring alarm goes off in the warehouse.

“—open that.”

“Shit,” Leonard curses, stepping back to cover his ears. “What the hell?”

“Keenser!” the man cries into the warehouse, then makes a beeline for Leonard. He puts his shoulder against the door and wedges it shut again. The alarm doesn’t cease to wail, however.

“You can’t use this. It’s for emergencies only.”

Leonard rounds on the man. “Then why the hell does it say Employee Entrance!”

The man scratches at his head. “Don’t know… as a joke?”

Leonard starts to snarl but catches himself in time and gives the door a last glare before heading to the open docking bay. He ignores the guy on his heels as he stalks up the concrete stairs and into the building.

“So…” his new companion says as they make their way around pallets and boxes, “you’re Santa?”

Leonard grunts.

“Is that a yes? Because I heard from Keenser, who heard from William, who heard from Christine, who heard from the boss lady, that Santa Claus is a hot thing this year.” The fellow pauses to consider what he just said. “Uh, maybe that was ‘hottie’? I’m not sure. Things get lost in translation.”

Leonard stops walking and turns on the man. “Are you gay?”

“What?” The guy blinks at him owlishly until the question registers. “What! No, not me!”

“Then don’t call me a hottie.” His brows draw together. “You know what? Even if you are gay, don’t call me a hottie. Got it?”

To Leonard’s surprise, the guy grabs his arm before he can walk away.

“If you’ve got a problem, by which I mean a prejudice,” he says in all seriousness to Leonard, “then you might as well turn in your suit to the office and leave.”

That makes Leonard curious. “Why?”

“One, it ain’t nice and, two, if the boss lady hears you, she’ll put one of her really pointy high heels up your ass.”

“Again, why?” he asks.

The man flushes. “Because this is a hate-free zone, okay?”

“You mean nobody hates anybody here?” he says sarcastically. “Not even the management? Well, color me surprised.”

“You’re a strange one.”

Leonard snorts and shakes off the man’s grip. “I’ve been called worse.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of a set of doors. “Will that take me into the store?”

His guide crosses his arms in a show of stubborn silence.

“Whatever,” Leonard mutters and heads for the doors anyway.

“Hey,” comes from behind him a few seconds later, “you didn’t tell me your name!”

“You guessed it already—it’s Santa!” he yells back, and punches through the swinging doors to the other side.

~~~

Mr. Spock is a tall, wraith-like man with dark hair and an unnerving stare. It appears that he is also a stickler for rules.

“You are four minutes late,” he announces when Leonard enters his office.

“Met some nutbar in your warehouse,” Leonard shoots back. “FYI, your Employee Entrance is jammed.”

The merest of frowns touches the manager’s face before vanishing. “Thank you for telling me. I will have it looked into.”

“Which one: the nutbar or the door?”

“The door,” Mr. Spock replies firmly.

“Then who’s the nutbar?”

“That description is not amusing, Mr. McCoy.” The tall man angles away slightly to pick up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “I suspect you met our engineer, Mr. Scott.”

Leonard makes a face. “Why does a department store need an engineer?”

Spock turns back to him, looking nonplussed. “His work is not your business, Mr. McCoy. If you will have a seat—” He motions to a chair. “—I require only a moment of your time to go over your contract of employment. Then Nyota, whom you met at the time of your hiring, will show you to the area in which you will be stationed for a majority of the day.”

Leonard doesn’t sit, instead waving his hand in dismissal. “I’ve signed at least a dozen contracts in my day, Mr. Spock. I’m dressing up as an old man who makes toys for a living. It’s not rocket science. I say, ‘ho ho’, kids drool on me, then you pay me.”

Mr. Spock only blinks at him. “I believe it is ‘ho ho ho’.”

“I don’t find that amusing, Mr. Spock,” Leonard responds smartly.

The man waits another moment (for god knows what, Leonard wonders) before offering him an ink pen and the final page of the contract. Leonard scribbles his name on the dotted line and drops the pen back to the desk.

“Lead the way,” he says.

Mr. Spock obliges him as far as the door where, apparently, Nyota Uhura has been waiting the entire time. She and Mr. Spock exchange a single glance, one which Leonard pointedly ignores. He lets Nyota catch up to him.

~~~

“And that,” his tour guide concludes, “is the scene.”

Leonard eyes the polished sleigh, glittery green-gold festivities and lush-red carpet. “Lovely,” he remarks in his flattest tone.

There is a moment in which Leonard feels like he is being scrutinized very deeply. Then Nyota says, “You don’t like it, do you?”

He shrugs. “It’s better than some scenes I’ve worked in.”

“Ah,” she murmurs, her tone knowing. “Then it’s not the decorations themselves. Why would you play Santa Claus if you hate Christmas?”

He starts at that and stares at her.

She shrugs, like he did, and lifts a hand to catch the attention of an employee trying to straighten a fake Christmas tree. When he comes over, she introduces him. “Pavel Chekov, meet Leonard McCoy—or should I say, Santa Claus?”

“Santa!” Pavel says excitedly, pumping Leonard’s hand. “I am wery glad to see you! Do you like my sleigh?”

“It’s great,” Leonard replies, because Pavel’s angelic face and wide, innocent eyes caution him that he would be a terrible person to say otherwise—that, and the sharp warning in Nyota’s gaze. “It’s great,” he says again. “The sleigh. I’m sitting there?”

“Vell…” murmurs Pavel, letting go of Leonard’s hand to stroke his chin in a thoughtful manner. “I debate, you see. Ze sleigh or ze chair.” He indicated a huge wooden monstrosity covered in red velour and sprinkled liberally with fake snow.

Leonard grimaces.

“No chair?” Pavel guesses.

“No snow,” corrects Leonard. “It gets into the suit.”

“…Oh!” Pavel claps his hands. “I can do zat!”

Leonard watches in amazement as Pavel begins to shake off the snow from the red coverlet.

“He’s our showcase designer,” Nyota tells Leonard, amused. “Better than anyone you’ll find at the chain stores.”

Leonard blows out a breath. “So I’m not supposed to offend him?”

“You couldn’t if you tried. He likes it when people challenge his work.”

Pavel is, in fact, at that moment rearranging the drape of the coverlet and humming a Christmas tune.

Leonard is allergic to Christmas tunes. They make him itch. He faces in the opposite direction and wills his mind to block the music out. Nyota moves around him, fetching other workers who will be on the set with him and introducing them. Leonard offers a gruff “Hello” to each one and little else. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies someone he is certain he has seen before—multiple times, in fact, since he and Nyota walked out onto the sales floor.

He points out the man lurking behind the clothes rack and raises his voice, demanding, “Who’s that?”

Nyota turns to look—and smiles. “Our security officer. Hikaru!”

Hikaru melts backwards in the men’s clothing section and out of their sight.

“Friendly muck,” comments Leonard.

“Sulu takes his job very seriously,” says Nyota. “Plus, you’re new. If you have any problems…”

Or if he causes problems… Leonard can read between the lines.

“…Sulu will handle it. Quite a large crowd can gather here, you know, at the Santa Line. But he’s been with us for a while. It won’t faze him.”

Leonard says, “Sure, good to know,” like he cares and runs a hand through his hair. “Guess I’d better suit up.”

“You should. We open in twenty minutes. Remember—”

“Oh, I know,” Leonard interrupts her. “Be jolly. Entertain the kids, and help their parents spend their cash while they’re here.”

Nyota smiles. “Yes, exactly that. Good luck.”

Leonard bares his teeth and hopes she accepts the grimace as his version of a smile.

Time to start the show, he thinks.

Yes, it’s more than time.

~~~

“Ho ho,” Santa Claus says to his first customer of the season.

The little girl instantly bursts into tears.

Santa closes his eyes, counts to ten, then starts to bounce his knee.

The girl child’s bawling quiets to wet sniffles.

“Ho ho ho,” Leonard tries again. “Merry Christmas!”

She reaches up, quick as only little children can be, and pulls off his beard. Then she giggles after she lets it go and it snaps back into place.

Leonard knows better than to say ow. The little brat will only torture him more if she hears that.

He hands her off to a female elf with the declaration, “Done. Next!”

~~~

He had almost forgotten how tiring it can be to pander to children. Almost.

The ache in his bones is a reminder that one day he will be of an age to play a proper Santa Claus. The ache in his heart is different, and luckily only brief.

Leonard strips down to a plain t-shirt, leaving on the over-sized red pants and black shiny boots rather than changing completely, and heads out into the adjoining mall for a lunch break. The food court isn’t much since the mall itself is rather small and out-dated, but he’s satisfied to find a fast food chain that sells something green. Picking at the limp lettuce in his salad, Leonard stretches out his legs and thinks of nothing for a whole thirty minutes.

The watch on his wrist, somewhere in the middle between cheap and expensive, chimes softly when his lunch break is nearly up. Leonard dumps his half-eaten salad into a disposal bin and walks back to the department store currently employing him.

On the way, he passes by a community board of flyers. He slows down as he sees one for a local bar and grill and tears it off the wall, folding it into a small square that fits neatly into the palm of his hand. Only when he reaches the store front does he hesitate and turn back to the nearest trash canister to let the flyer float to the bottom.

He is a minute late for his shift, but the dark shadow of Mr. Spock standing in archway of Customer Service says nothing to him. Thus Leonard dons the Santa suit and returns to the children.

~~~

The afternoon crowd grows and grows until it’s teeming with small, noise-making humans and larger, even more impatient ones. Leonard can only work so fast, and thus the line can only move in tandem with him. It doesn’t matter how parents shift on their feet and transfer their children from hip to hand and back again. The first day is always the busiest for some odd reason. Leonard has often thought that while little kids love seeing Santa, their parents dread it like a chore.

And maybe it is. At least, for Leonard it is.

He accepts his fifth fidgety youngster in a row and says, “Ho ho.”

“Merry Christmas!” the youngster supplies for him.

“Yeah,” agrees Leonard dourly. “So, what do you want for the holidays, kid?”

“A reindeer!”

“I don’t do live animals.”

The child’s lower lip wobbles. “But…”

“No,” Leonard tells him firmly. “And especially not a reindeer. I need those.”

The wobble disappears. “Oh, okay. ‘Cause you have to bring my presents, right?”

“Something like that,” Leonard mutters beneath his fluffy white beard. “Tell me something else that you want.”

“Um…Um. Um, um, um.”

To the boy it probably looks like Leonard is smiling. Leonard isn’t.

“Um.”

“C’mon now,” Santa coaxes. “Santa has seen a lot of boys and girls today and his back is killing him.”

“Um.”

“Kid…”

“UM.”

“SAY IT!” Leonard barks, his patience at an end.

The wobble comes back, followed by a wail.

Leonard closes his eyes.

He almost made it one day. What would she think?

He stops that thought before a worse one follows it and opens his eyes. “Santa’s sorry,” he tells the crying child in his lap.

Of course, that hardly matters when the parent is already glaring at him like he’s a criminal, and—

Oh Christ.

Why is Sulu coming up onto the stage?

In a quiet tone, the security guard asks the mother, “Is there a problem?”

“Where’d you come from?” Leonard wants to know.

One of the helper Elves, the one with a name tag that says Janice, is already extricating the upset child from Leonard’s lap.

Sulu’s gaze strays to Leonard, and Leonard narrows his own. Why does he have the feeling that the man wants to drag him off his Santa chair in handcuffs?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time some punk has taken a disliking to him.

Leonard says loudly enough for half of the store to hear, “Ho there, Officer! And what would a big boy like you want for Christmas?”

Sulu plucks his walkie-talkie off his belt and says into it, “Sir, I think we have a problem at the Santa line.”

The mother chimes in, “That man raised his voice to my child! I want a refund!”

Leonard pinches the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly, Nyota is there, talking to the woman in a sweet voice. Leonard can’t make out all that she’s saying as she leads the mother and child away, but it’s obvious she is promising some kind of compensation.

Sulu lingers only a second longer, giving Leonard a last I’ve got my eye on you, pal stare before he steps off the stage and pulls his vanishing act.

The Elves are putting up the fifteen-minute break sign. Leonard’s stomach sinks but he obeys the unspoken directive to remove himself. As he is trudging towards the Employee Only sign at the back of the store, someone slips into step beside him.

“Mr. McCoy.”

“Mr. Spock,” Leonard returns the greeting.

“If you please, see me for a moment in my office.”

That isn’t really a request. Leonard removes his cap and replies, “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

It is early in the season yet. There will be somewhere else that he can go if this store throws him out. But he doesn’t like the realization that the knot in his stomach is born of a worry that he might have jeopardized his chance to be Santa this year.

Mr. Spock’s office is no different than it was that morning. The desk is free of clutter; the business calendar on the wall is filled with tiny, cramped writing; every piece of paper, pencil, and pen has its place. Leonard has met meticulous people before, but Mr. Spock’s orderliness seems to border on compulsive.

Not seems—is, Leonard amends as the store manager adjusts the angle of an empty chair to mirror its twin perfectly before he invites Leonard to sit down.

Leonard takes a seat and while Mr. Spock’s back is turned knocks the second chair slightly out of line with the toe of his boot.

The man in front of him stiffens at the damning scraping sound without turning around. “That,” comes his murmur, “will be another point.”

“What?”

“Please correct the chair, Mr. McCoy.”

Damn, Leonard thinks. This guy might really have eyes in the back of his head!

Being naturally ornery, Leonard waits a handful of seconds before straightening the chair. Mr. Spock then pulls something out of a file cabinet and comes back to him.

“This,” he says, holding up a laminated poster board with a row of five squares and Leonard’s name printed across the top, “is your Misconduct Chart.”

“Say what?”

“Your Misconduct Chart, Mr. McCoy.” Spock retrieves a marker from his pen holder and uncaps it. “Each box can contain up to five marks. Each time you are tardy to an event, you will receive one point.” He draws two tally marks in the first box. “For poor presentation or refusal to comply with our policies, you will receive one point.” He seems to debate over this briefly but ultimately does not mark the chart. “And, of course, for the inability to perform your job—in this case with regard to the Santa line—you will receive two to three points, depending on the severity. If the customer cannot be placated, that is an additional point. When all five boxes are filled, your contract with us is terminated.”

Halfway through this explanation, Leonard’s mouth has dropped open. Now he shuts it with a click, and explodes, “Are you insane?!“

Spock blinks at him and slowly, oh so slowly, draws another tally mark on the chart.

Leonard leaps out his chair and snatches the chart from Spock. “This isn’t kindergarten!” he shouts, flapping it angrily in Spock’s face. “You can’t wrist-slap for bad behavior!”

Spock cocks his head. “Would you prefer an actual wrist-slap?”

This guy is out of his mind! Leonard jerks the marker out of Spock’s hand and fills in all the boxes. “There,” he snarls, shoving the chart back into the crazy man’s chest, “I’m the worst Santa you’ve ever had! Satisfied?”

Spock looks consternated. “You ruined your chart, Mr. McCoy. Making another one will cost you one point.”

Leonard can only stare at him. Finally he drops back into his chair and grabs his head with his hands. It is some time before he can coherently ask, “How many do I have so far?”

“Four marks,” Spock replies.

“Shouldn’t it be more than that?”

“Today’s incident in the Line will not count against you.”

Leonard sits up straight. “Why not?”

“Interesting. In this instance, most employees would thank me.”

“I’m not most employees,” Leonard counters. “I want to know why.”

Spock’s gaze leaves him, then, and travels to various spots around the room. Whatever he is searching for, he apparently does not find. “I have been told,” he says at last, “that one’s first day on the job can be trying. Therefore I will consider your outburst to be… due to stress. But take care to control yourself in the future, Mr. McCoy.”

“Right,” Leonard mutters. “The fifteen minutes are almost up.” He comes to his feet. “Am I dismissed, sir?”

His employer nods.

“Great,” he says flatly, stuffing his cap back onto his head. Leonard returns to his work without further ado.

He passes Sulu coming through the main office from the store front. Once behind Leonard, the guard clicks on his radio as the swinging door is closing and reports, “He’s returning to the floor, sir.”

Leonard grinds his back teeth all the way to the Christmas set.

~~~

At the end of his first day, Leonard gladly changes out of his Claus costume and shoves it into the locker assigned to him. He checks for his wallet and the small cell phone that he carries before hurrying to catch the last bus for the night. He bumps into someone on their way into the store and pauses long enough to warn him, “We’re closing in ten minutes.”

The guy grins back at him and claims cockily, “I know.”

Leonard snorts, thinking that isn’t worth a response. Then he is on his way again, breaking into a run across the parking lot, having spied the bus coming down the highway for its final run.

It’s possible the person yelling out behind him “See you soon!” is actually calling to Leonard, but Leonard’s thoughts are preoccupied enough that he doesn’t pay him any heed.

[ Master Post | Next Part ]

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• An Idiot’s Guide to Christmas (3/4) – from December 11, 2014
• An Idiot’s Guide to Christmas (2/4) – from December 11, 2014

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