Santastic

“Of course I’ll be Santa for you. As long as I don’t have a job by then.” Three months ago, the idea that I might not have a job by Christmas seemed pretty silly. So, naturally, I agreed to the idea.

But as I sat in the kitchen block of Spring Grove School, waiting to go into the nursery section, I was already sweating. And trying to breathe while not choking on the Nylon beard was harder work than I expected.

I was starting to get nervous, but I asked myself what could be so difficult about a room full of under-fives? They would love me and it would only last a few minutes. A few well placed ”Ho Ho Ho’s” and I would be out of there again.




A muslim teaching assistant entered the store cupboard where I was holed up. She was mostly hidden behind a scarf and veil, but I was even harder to recognise under my hood and fake white hair. “Are Santa?” she asked.

I really wanted to say something smart, but I still had a mouthful of beard.

“They’re ready for you. Grab your sack.”

And then we were walking into class.

I’ve never performed a parachute jump, but I imagine there’s a brief moment just before you jump out of the plane where you find a voice in your head that’s saying ‘Am I actually doing this?’ I rang my bell and bellowed out a festive laugh as thirty little faces turned in amazement.

It went well. I’ve spent long enough briefing senior Staff Officers in the army to learn how to cope with stupid questions. I had my lines. I played the game, and I had the voice. (I think I made a reasonable approximation of something in between Hagrid and Dumbledore.)

But the questions kept coming. “What’s your favourite colour?” (Red, of course.)

“You don’t have any children, do you?” (No, but you are all my children.)

“No, but you don’t have any real children, do you?” (I have elves, and they take so much looking after that I don’t have time for children.)

“So why do you have elves to make your toys when they are so small?” (I use small elves because they don’t need big wages.)

“Why are you out in the daytime?” (We’re practicing our landings for the big night.)

“Did You ever get stuck up a chimney?” (How come nobody ever lets me forget that? I make one little mistake and the whole world sings about it for ever.”

“You’re not the real father Christmas, are you?” (Do you know, children always ask me that. This year I’ve been asked that question six thousand and fifty four times.)

“I’m four.” (Congratulations. I’m four thousand, three hundred and twelve.)

“I tidied my room!” (I know. Well done!)

It took a long time to answer all the questions. It took a lot longer to hand out all the presents when each name tag had a mysterious Hindu or Muslim name I’d never seen before. I can't tell you how hot it was. under all that red clothing was a very red David. But to see the looks on the faces of Muminah, Sahid, Zain, Rahamahn, Ali, etc, it was worth the effort it needed.




So I had a great time. Somebody took the snap above and sent it to my phone. Not the most flattering Santa picture I’ve ever seen, but for me it's quite priceless.

I think when I start my job next year I’ll have it put into my contract that I get a day off at Christmas to do it all over again.

We can make it official, and call it the Santa Clause.