Considering Santa only has to work one day every year, and although that day is a day when he manages to make his way around all of the 196 countries in the world in record time, and he works very hard doing it, it is still only one day a year.

Yes, he has the odd letter to respond to that can't be handled by the team and yes on the very odd occasion he's called into head office for his opinion on a new line of toys, but for all intents and purposes, Santa only works once a year.

With this in mind, and considering all of the free time he has on his hands, how he manages to somehow misplace his suit every year, and only decide to look for it at the very last minute, is a subject of constant consternation to his ever-doting wife.

Every year the same situation occurs, and every year she plays her role to perfection, knowing exactly how it will end.

After such a long time, it still amazes her how on earth he manages to forget.

The typical conversation would usually run like this: "I can't find my suit."

"Which one?"

"Which one? My Santa suit of course. How often do you see me wearing a suit during the rest of the year?"

"Alright, I'm only trying to help."

Santa is of course by this point searching the house, looking under the bed, in closets and wardrobes, and Mrs Santa is both following him around and trying to keep out of his way.

"Where did you last have it?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be looking for it."

"Well where did you put it after you took it off?"

"Where I always put it."

"Well where is that?"

"I don't know."

This would go on and on, and Santa would get increasingly more frustrated.

Without fail, at 11pm on Christmas eve's eve, when everything should be finalised for the day ahead, when Santa shouldn't be running around like a mad man, when the house has been turned over, the reindeer have been checked and the garden has been turfed up, he would look in the very last place left to search, and instantly find what he was looking for.

He would disappear under a blanket of socks, and pants, and thermal vests, and finally emerge from the bottom of the laundry basket, with his grubby mitts on a stinking suit, that has been cast there 362 days before, when he's come in from his sole, single and solitary shift, undressed and made his way to the bath Mrs Santa always makes sure is run to meet his arrival.

Upon finding the suit, and with clockwork regularity, he would smell it and decide it was good enough to use. Mrs Santa would then smell it and tell him if he was going to wear it like that, the reindeer wouldn't make it beyond an hour in his company, let alone the rest of the night.

A conversation would then ensue regarding how best to remedy the niff, which would always result in the ponging suit being subjected to several hours in the washing machine, on the heavily soiled setting.

Santa would sit in front of it and watch it go round and Mrs Santa would always say 'that's not going to make it clean any faster.'

Mrs Santa would then spend the rest of the night trying to make it dry, while Santa got some rest before his big day. It was a routine she knew inside out.

Trying to make things dry in the north pole, on the 23rd December has never been an easy task, and after years of experimentation, she's worked out the best method involves a quick flash in the oven to take the edge off, taking great care not to set the bobbles alight, and the rest of the night on the clothes horse, right next to the open fire.

It's never enough time to get it all the moisture out of it though, and Santa always begins his shift with a wet bum, usually not drying off fully until he's half way through the night, and working his way up the eastern coast of Australia.

Mrs Santa believes it serves him right, and justifies her having to stay up the night before to wash it, and clean up the house when he's gone.

When he's done, all the presents have been delivered and he's finally back home again after a tiring shift, he does what he always does, drops his suit into the washing basket, sinks into a nice warm bath and forgets all about it again for another year.

Mrs Santa could fish it out of the basket for him at any point in the year, wash it, iron it and hang it up ready for use, but she likes to see him squirm, and it just wouldn't feel like Christmas without it.

Besides which, she tells herself in the rare moments she might find herself considering it, he only works once a year!