Ho, ho, ho?

It's Christmas eve and the air has a slight nip to it.
I edge my way through a busy City street, even as drunken revellers jostle me as they yell, "Happy Christmas!!" to nobody in particular. Check for my wallet... Whew! Still around...
Engulfed by a flood of humanity. Here's an old lady, out for a nice Christmas dinner with her daughter and son-in-law. There's this kid, and you can tell he is a brat by the way he is squealing for that Buzz Lightyear figurine on the toystore window. There are these punks, hair cropped short and dyed pimento red, animatedly arguing whether it's time yet for their next joint.
There are tens of thousands on Brigade Road, each trying to celebrate Christmas in his (or her) own special way. Me? I am just trying to reach the other side of the street - and quite unsuccessfully at that.
Finally, I turn into a dark alley. Getting late for office, so I might as well take the shorter way out of this shit.
It's calmer here. The only people around now are couples, busy whispering sweet-nothings to the other or doing stuff that has helped make a superstar out of Emraan Hashmi. Much better, as long as I keep my eyes on the muck-splattered road.
Someone paws at my hand. I looked down to see a street urchin selling Santa Claus topees. Shrug Shrug.
He starts scratching my shoulder again. "Please sir, one.. just take just one," he tries again, in broken English. I quicken my pace but my nemesis seems to be relentless in my pursuit.
And just when I'm about to break into a jog, I look back. The guy has left me for another - this time it's a phirang, a.k.a. an American tourist, complete with a blonde beard, rucksack et al.
Now, although these creatures are generally supposed to be easy prey, I have my doubts about this particular specimen. At nearly seven feet, he towers over the urchin - his bodylanguage anything but pleasant.
The victim backs away, in the newfound knowledge of impending doom. But he isn't that lucky. The phirang reaches out, snatches two Santa topees from him and throws them into the gushing sewer.
The kid starts crying but the giant wouldn't care less. He tries to spit on him, somehow bungles up and sends saliva dribbling down his beard to create a damp patch on the checkered shirt below. Which proves to be too much for the kid, sending him down the street at full speed.
I close my eyes - maybe to stop looking at the hated person for a split second.
"I am sure he's related to Bush in some way," I hear a male voice say, followed by a woman's giggle. So I wasn't the sole witness to this incident.
Time Out. I turn and walk up the stairs to my office.
Enough of Christmas - work beckons.

PS. This pic is also from the net, but come visiting anyway ;)