Santa, Obama, myself and other greybeards' place in society
I totally empathise with Mr Obama because of the ordeal through which I have been personally passing since about the middle of November.
It manifested itself earlier than ever before this year because the Christmas marketing operation everywhere began, even before Halloween was bonfired away.
Ye all know that.
One’s pigmentation has always been a major life factor everywhere.
And it is not just the dermatitic element which determines how the world views us and treats us on a daily basis.
It is the age-related blanching of my hair and beard, for example, which has created the difficult situation which I will have to live with until Christmas comes again.
It pains me to the heart, even as its fascinates me in the wider context.
In a nutshell what is happening these winter days is that I cannot go about my daily business quietly and anonymously.
Every hour I am out on the streets I am being viewed with shock and awe and wonder by little boys and girls up to the age of about seven years whose eyes widen and rounden as they realise that they are looking at Santa and are wondering did he get their letter and will he bring them the present they are expecting.
And that is the pure truth.
And it is equally true that I cannot wear my red anorak again until the New Year.
It is a shocking strain on the system to significantly resemble Mr Claus at this time of year for sure.
What I also know to my cost is how differently the world treated me in my twenties when my beard was coal black and the shoulder-length hair was of the same hue.
There were not that many beards in rural Ireland back then and those that wore them were largely treated with suspicion, especially if, like me, they resembled both Judas Iscariot and Rasputin.
There were pubs where you would not be served.
Gardaí looked at you with hard eyes that seemed to be connecting you to the last burglary or violent affray in the parish.
Many young ladies would refuse to dance with you in the dry ballrooms of yonder Ireland.
You looked like a pariah and were often treated as one too.
Check that out with any man brave or foolish enough to wear a beard and long hair in the Fifties and Sixties.
It is such a significant change, just because you have silvered with the years, to be now viewed with wonder by the little ones of the New Ireland.
But it is a problem too for the saddest of reasons.
When it first began to manifest itself to me 15 years ago I had what was then the perfect response to the children with the round bright eyes.
I would talk to them and say that I was not Santa but I was his younger brother.
I would be seeing Santa next week, I would say, and if they told me what they wanted I would be glad to pass the message along.
I would spend a little time with them too.
But dammit since the appalling behaviour of so many evil and damaged men in relation to children nowadays, and the natural protective suspicion of mothers and fathers, a lone man, especially an allegedly gentle one who resembles Claus, cannot go within 10 yards of children now.
Accordingly I now leave the red anorak at home, avoid eye contact with the little ones, and Santa’s younger brother is not part of the festivities any more.
I totally agree with the necessity for parents to be as protective as they are now but it still saddens me to no longer be safely able to play the game with the little ones.
In many senses that is even harder than once having looked like the Iscariot.
