War on Santa

My struggle with the Grand Hotel has just taken a definite turn for the worst. They’ve put up their Christmas decorations, and they’re simply excruciating!

I’m walking down one of the many empty corridors in this labyrinth of a hotel, the only sound is the click-click of my heels on the polished marble floor (yes, it’s that kind of hotel), when suddenly this mechanical voice booms out at me from nowhere a 1980s rock-and-roll rendition of “Santa’s Coming to Town”. My heart leaps to my mouth in fright, my legs end up somewhere around my ears as I turn to face my aggressor and find myself confronted with a child-sized all-singing, all-dancing plastic Santa clad in bright red velvet, frantically wriggling his booty left, right and centre, and grinning at me in an apparent thrill of ecstasy.

(Did I mention that it’s forbidden to take pictures in public places in DRC? In case you’re worrying about my photographic abilities…)

Breakfast has become a real chore, as all the different Santas compete for attention and their badly tuned songs resonate loudly across the atrium. To add to the cacophony, the unshakeable pianist continues to play monotonously his daily set of lacklustre standards, oblivious to the hellish rock and roll echoing all around us.

So now every morning as I walk out of the hotel, and every evening as I walk in, I am greeted by the unmistakeable motorized booty shake, not to mention the lime-green plastic Christmas trees, laden with huge, oversized, bright silver, plastic bells, etc, etc.

Oh Saint Nicholas of our childhoods, why hast thou forsaken us?