A lonely snowman.
I love chocolate and champagne.

In the distant and good Soviet times, I was a Snowmen for three years in a row. I explained. Then professional artists were rarely invited, apparently for savings, and New Year's characters were selected from employees of enterprises.

In my company, Snow White was always chosen a slim, blue-eyed blonde Svet, and Santa Claus was the low-drinking man, which, as it turned out later, was a fateful mistake. So, for some reason, Light had the habit of picking up the flu for the holiday, and I was, so to speak, her doublor, spare Snowmen No. 2.

The snow was healthy. My dark curls were trying to get out of under the white wig all the time, and my little coat was cracking under my head and on my core girl’s chest.

So the celebration scheme was the same for three years. The inexperienced Santa Claus was very quick to get into the dirt, because it was customary to drink him in all the apartments with vodka, and I was served with champagne and chocolate. It was impossible to refuse. The driver refused to replace Santa Claus, and I was forced to carry out the mission alone.

What I did not write to poor children to explain the absence of Santa Claus. Then he walked on deer, rescued geologists who were lost in the taiga, then helped astronauts in space, then in Africa rescued elephants from poachers.

From the excess of champagne and chocolate in the body, I told with such a feeling about his heroic feats that children and adults listened to me as enthralled. Even forgot to read the New Year's verses about the tree tree and drive around it. It took me, not to stop. Then the Father on the fires brought people out of the fire, then the thief who stole the old lady's bag caught, then the birth took. In general, it is horrifying what can be said about the champagne snuggle.

But people liked it for some reason. Then I gave the kids New Year's gifts, kissed everyone in the cheeks on behalf of Santa Claus and left, all so drunk, bright, fixing on the go my dark curls, coming out of under the white hair.

Since then, I almost don’t drink champagne, I don’t like chocolate, but the habit of telling all sorts of obscene stories I still have. With the coming!