A Visit to Santa

Laura's 9 but she still believes in Father Christmas. At least, she says she does. I'm not convinced she isn't playing along with us, a) so as not to upset any one and b) to get more presents, but she declares that Father Christmas is alive and well. Vicky, apparently, said Father Christmas is really your dad leaving your presents out for you but Laura said, in that 9-going-on-34 patronising sort of voice she adopts for these occasions, along with the raised eyebrows and the slight smile, "Well I believe in him, Vicky. You believe what you like but he's very real to me."

Anyway, we went late afternoon shopping in Warrington when she'd finished school the other day. There's a beautiful new addition to Golden Square, the mall in the town centre, which has made it twice as big and has about another 50 shops and stores. It's looking more and more like the Trafford Centre but it has a way to go to reach that size - and, of course, Warrington Borough Council is too dim to see that free parking would bring more punters but that's another story.

So we're in the new Mall and there's a Santa's Grotto and Laura says, yes, she'd quite like to go in and meet Golden Square's Santa, even though he's not the real one. It was a very nice grotto, as grottos go, and there, in the inner sanctum, was Santa. He had the regulation red suit with white fur trimmings; he had the black boots; he had the silver curls and an impressive set of silver whiskers but, beneath them, he had the face of a 35 year old.

Santa stood up as Laura approached. Now, in my day the small punters sat on Santa's knee but, it seems, this is now completely taboo in case of real or imagined yuletide paedophilic connotations. Good God, what dangers did we (and my own parents) expose our children to in years gone by when smelly, often brewery-smelly, elderly men sat children, unsteadily, on their laps and asked them what they would like for Christmas? I must admit, I have been scarred for life due to Santa asking this of me when I was 6. I told him I wanted a pony and he said he would see what he could do - but the pony never arrived and when I asked my dad he said Santa couldn't deliver livestock and, anyway, a pony wouldn't be happy living at the end of the garden with the hens and the geese which would peck its legs.

But I digress. Laura shook Santa's proffered hand and he then asked her name, in a hearty voice. She told him and he boomed, "Laura, that's a lovely name. Groovy!"
There was a minute or so of "What do you want for Xmas?", "Oh, anything", then Santa said,
"So, what's the gossip at school, Laura?"
Laura shrugged then said, "Well, Robyn's hair is nearly down to her waist and she's going to have it cut to here", she indicated an inch above her shoulder. Santa beamed like a search-light, under his whiskers, and bellowed,
"Ah, hair gossip. I love hair gossip. It's groovy".
Laura looked at him in horrid bewilderment and the interview was concluded with a mutual "Merry Christmas". We left the grotto. I was rather relieved to leave.