Runner-up, Adults "So let's start again, shall we? From the top.'' The Senior Immigration Officer laced his fingers together. He was interested, patient. He had seen many things. His guest on the other hand was quite agitated. The short walk over to Arrivals from the new private aircraft terminal had raised his temperature to such a degree that he had already removed his thick mittens and loosened his tunic. To his toes, wiggling hotly in big, black boots, frostbite was a pleasant memory. He didn't need nay delays. "According to my officer, you wish to enter Bermuda to work/reside for a period of two to four hours.

You have no Bermuda currency and no address on the island where you intend to stay, and your work permit is no longer valid. What exactly is the nature of your business, Mr....Claus?'' "Philanthropy. I give presents away to children. It's all there in my invalid permit.'' The officer uncoupled his fingers and put on his glasses. "Yes, the permit. I was coming to that.'' He peered at the crumpled paper. "This permit allows Mr. S. Claus to engage in generous acts toward good and deserving children, provided that they do not pout or cry, on an annual basis for one hundred years...commencing in...Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Ninety Seven. The problem, as you can see, is that is has expired.'' The old man's face was as red as his jacket. "Now, I understand that you have come a long way, Mr. Claus, and in other circumstances I am prepared to let you into the Island. But no `generous acts' please until this matter is cleared up. I'll make a few calls and in the meantime make your whereabouts known to us. Is that understood?'' He understood, and shuffled on past the smiling goodwill ambassadors -- glad to see someone his own age -- and into the baggage hall, where he was greeted by a scene of carnage. Dozens of travellers thronged the carousel, trying to pick out their suitcases among piles of brightly-coloured boxes, which had been circulating, ownerless, for the past twenty minutes. The careful stacking of the baggage handlers was as naught; the boxes were everywhere. Fortunately, this was the easy bit. With a nod from the old man, three skycaps he recognised converged on the scene, and soon had all the presents loaded into their trolleys. He was then referred to the customs-cum-cashier desk, or rather the queue leading to it. This process was completely different to how All Wrapped Up in Beautiful Red Tape time, he daydreamed about other countries on his schedule where entry had been so much easier: Cuba, Albania, North Korea, Iraq. They had been so glad to see him. "Ah, Mr. Claus. Gifts . Could you be a little more specific, please? And give us an idea of the value while you're at it.'' The old man groaned. His white whiskers drooped at the edges. To determine the value, he said, the officer would have to ask the intended recipients. That could be difficult before the morning, as fewer children wrote to Santa in advance these days.

Plus, he had no money, and frankly was not used to this level of scrutiny. Was something wrong? The customs officer was pleasant and matter-of-fact.

"Unfortunately, sir, you have been flagged by our system. I'm afraid you will have to come with me.'' Thirty minutes later, as he dressed, he was given a further apology. "I'm so sorry sir. I had no idea that was all you inside that tunic. Have you heard of Weight Watchers?'' Santa felt himself losing it.

"Listen buster...officer,'' he said, "you try sitting in a log cabin making chocolate and all kinds of candy for twelve months, and see how much of it you end up eating! I only put on about one pound a year...'' Outside, he declined the offers of taxis, instead standing on the curbside and issuing a long, low whistle. Nothing happened. After repeating this for five minutes, with several misunderstandings with the cab drivers, he was surprised to see his faithful reindeer following him out from the customs area, looking suitably sorry for themselves. "Not you as well?'' he said as Donner nodded ruefully. "Oh well, let's just go and get the sleigh. Blitzen, see if you can round up those skycaps will you?'' How the media got hold of it was, as usual, a mystery, but the charge that "Bermuda Officials Cancel Christmas'' was a hot potato that passed quickly from Immigration to Home Affairs, from Permanent Secretary to Minister, from Government all the way up to the Opposition. The House was called to an emergency session. The mood was ugly, the issue divisive: Should the House grant a further license or not? The Opposition spokesman was quite firm on this. "Mr. Speaker, there is no substantive evidence to support the theory that we need a foreign Father Christmas. The statistic showing that children are much happier on Boxing Day than they were on Christmas Eve is clearly flawed. What about the rest of the year?'' He waved his own report which showed children actually declining in happiness between May 1994 and February 1996. It was meaningless, but had been great fun to do. The point was, there were potential philanthropists here in Bermuda, who could do a better job but were discouraged by the appearance, year after year, of a ruddy-faced, overweight expat who clearly felt he had a job for life. Gift giving should, he said, be a closed category. The debate was not merely along party lines. Members of Government with declared (and non-executive) interests in the fortunes of the retail sector here saw an opportunity to voice their concerns. This North Pole-based company was doing business in Bermuda despite having zero local ownership, let alone sixty percent. It was a global company, which paid no tax and employed nobody locally, preferring to use its own workforce, with questionable hiring criteria which would not be acceptable in Bermuda's relatively tall population. With brand image on top of that, it was almost impossible to expect local companies to compete. In one member's opinion, "Allowing Mr. Claus further, untrammelled, access to our market is a recipe for disaster.'' It was clear from the animated muttering on the benches that not everybody was against permit renewal. There were, however, no volunteers to speak up in its defence. The Speaker was about to close the debate. Nobody had noticed the bearded figure who had snuck into the public gallery, until he rose slowly to his feet. "If I may be permitted to say a few words,'' he said, as heads turned and jaws dropped. Though this was most unusual, the Speaker indicated his assent. "I have listened to this debate with great interest, and one thing is very clear to me. You all feel very strongly that your views represent those of your constituents. The sad thing is that you may be right. I wonder though, if in all this talk of rights -- the right of the people to their own Santa, the right of Front Street to own a piece of the action -- you are not losing sight of your obligations : to your children, the consumers who do not have a vote, but who are affected by this and all the other decisions you make. Look at your watches, ladies and gentlemen. If you really want to do this yourself, as is your right , then my replacement has only hours to prepare if the children are not to suffer. I'll be over at Dunkley's farm if you change your mind. We'll be the ones with the antlers.'' After he had left, the debate took a decisive turn. Someone had the clever idea that, as a regular visitor for a hundred years, perhaps Santa could be treated as a long term resident. Though he could not be granted Status, they would make him a `test case' for the recently-vaunted Green Card idea. He would never be allowed to vote in elections, but could come and go to perform his specialist duties on a continuing annual basis. A late amendment, that he should appoint a successor in three years, was shouted down. They were tired. They had somewhere else to go. It was, after all, Christmas Eve. The dispatch rider trudged down the hill past the cows, shaking brown stuff from his boot. Santa examined the paperwork briefly by the light of Rudolph's nose, then sighed and said: "Come on boys and girls. Saddle up. Looks like we're legit again, and we've lots and lots of toys to deliver.'' He was pleased to see that in his new permit, they had not changed the "no pouting or crying'' clause. He didn't want to be sued for missing out the odd house that had sprung up or subdivided, and if there was one thing Bermuda was not short of, it was lawyers. The night passed with no more incident than usual. He was "caught in the act'' by more than one insomnulent parent as he filled up stockings or finished off a minced pie, but they were generally unfazed by his appearance. He blamed the X Files . Or maybe word had spread of the rough time he had had of it this year, and this had touched the sensible soul of Bermuda.

He felt more welcomed with each minced pie. The brandy helped too. Back at the airport, still in the early hours, they couldn't have been more friendly.

There was a short discussion with Customs about some of the presents he had brought in, which he was now taking off the Island. His explanation that his round was not yet finished was accepted, but he was advised to get a Deposit on Entry certificate next year, for which he would have to pay 30 percent of the value in Bermuda dollars and claim it back after six weeks. His tired, red eyes closed in disbelief. When he opened them, the officer was laughing.

"It's all right Santa,'' she said. "We wouldn't make you do that!'' Half an All Wrapped...

stars fading and a pale blue tinge to the eastern horizon. He could make up time by going straight over the US, which was deregulated, and so just a few Pacific islands lay between him and a relaxing snooze by the fire, and a faceful of undelivered soft centres. Over his shoulder, the familiar fish hook shrank behind him. He was exhausted, but was already looking forward to a hassle-free return next year. The Fastgate application form in his pocket would see to that. PHOTO Robert Jones