My annual rendezvous with Santa Claus over a bag of steaming chips on Cromer Pier found him heavily reflective rather than typically rumbustious.

I put it down to recession blues, penalty kick woes, climate change, political posturing, striking elves, devolution doubts, celebrity excesses, gratitude shortages, traffic pollution, blocked chimneys and rising cost of a beard and whiskers trim.

Then again, I had picked up rumours the old boy was cheesed off sharing those famous initials with the likes of Steve Coogan, Sean Connery, South Creake, Stewkey Cockles, Stormont Castle, Stowmarket Co-op, Sebastian Coe, Simon Cowell and Sweet Caroline.

“Singularly Calamitous!” he exclaimed by way of explanation for such an unseasonable demeanour. I suspected it had to be a prelude to a sackful of misgivings. I hadn’t seen him like this since Rudolph and his pulling partners threatened to withdraw labour over bonus payments in 1991.

My usual ploy of sprinkling his chips with salt, pepper and vinegar before extending condiments of the season would have been the epitome of poor taste. So I followed well-honed Norfolk instincts and asked why he looked as though he’d got up before he went anywhere.

“I expected better of Norfolk,” sighed a clearly out-of-sorts Santa, unravelling a lengthy list from his fur-lined pocket and daring me to guess where it ended. He jabbed a finger at several heavily underlined entries, released a frown worthy of any hen-pecked husband trapped in a shopping crowd and repeated his opening line. I felt bound to inquire in what ways this fine old county had let him down.

“Well, just look at all these impertinent questions about where I really … come from … does it matter if it’s Lapland, Legoland or Limpenhoe-cum-Sloley as long as I get there and deliver on time? I’ve a good mind to leave notes with presents indicating I am now based in USA headquarters – Uther Side of Attleborough!.”

I couldn’t muster the temerity to claim he nicked that one from me several exchanges ago when we shared Norfolk cracker suggestions to warm ourselves up as icy winds rattled our chip papers. In any event, he had moved on swiftly to an annual moan about too many demands from people who simply don’t realise when they’re well off.

Chance for me to sprout little horns and play devil’s advocate. “But we have to move into the fast lane and claim our portion of any spoils going.” A disdainful look escaped through a tangle of whiskers and beard. A withering put-down followed: “That’s hardly convincing from someone with a track record of wanting to single and then cobble the A11 highway”.

Santa had called my bluff and we both grimaced at the prospect of denouncing wish-lists built much more round grubby greed than proper thankfulness. He went first. “Take this lovely part of the world attracting bumper holiday crowds and ‘grey power’ retirement bandwagons. And all I get from tourism bosses are calls for an even busier season next summer. It will end up in rationing if they’re not careful!”

I tested him out by suggesting NDR stood for Nature Deserves Respect and Norfolk Defends Railways – after all he had just floated over the priceless Bittern Line – but he’d kept up to date and insisted all carbon footprints should be counted.

“You can’t bypass that Northern Distributor Road, boy. And look at these pleas from builders, estate agents, councillors, MPs, business leaders and other movers and shakers to leave piles of what they call ‘economic drivers’ under their beds.”

I tried to nudge him towards the brighter side with a couple of recent thrilling surveys placing Nelson’s County on the poop-deck of the good ship HMS Quality of Life. “Bah, humbug!” came the predictable reply with only a modicum of play-acting from someone able to spot unyielding traffic, ugly urban sprawl and stacks of unaffordable housing from a great height any time of year.

Santa then introduced a bold approach to the old challenge of making do in a prolonged era of austerity. “Ho – Ho!” he twinkled. I realised immediately the other “Ho” had to be held back in case it might be needed for when things get really bad.

While that sort of forward thinking symbolises need for cutting-down operations across our land, he still feels able to strike a confident note or two in his message to constant believers. “I did wonder if electricity supplies would hold up if so many places lit up in November. but perhaps that was no more than impatience to embrace a true spirit of togetherness.

“People tend to forget how many dark nights I have flown through to dispense little parcels of hope. And they don’t realise how my annual exercise is subject to same fluctuations in fortunes as any business below.”

Just enough time to tell him Western Link simply meant construction workers would wear cowboy hats. And I couldn’t resist asking if he might be available for the next World Cup if personal downsizing proved effective.

He smiled like a little lad unwrapping a new football on Christmas morning... 

“Well, I have always fancied myself as a roving Santa forward!.”