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Non-Fiction
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| Is it a bird? | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||
| 14 February 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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Be kind. I have man-flu and can't sleep. “Bob, can I ask you a favour?” Sue was one of the organizers of the kindergarten. I had turned up for one of the meetings when we first put Grace in. The only man. And all further meetings were held in the afternoon when I was away at work. But I recognized her. She popped up from time to time in Snodland life. “Sure.” In retrospect, a ‘What favour?’ would have been more appropriate. “Would you be Father Christmas?” I looked at Jacqui. She had spent the last few months making Christmas decorations and the like. The First Snodland Annual Community Centre Christmas Bazaar was her opportunity to start a craft retail empire. Or not, as it turned out. I was here to help set up the table and to deter shoplifters. She nodded her assent. “I’m only thirty-three, you know”, I said. But there was no heart in it. I am a sucker for any opportunity to perform. “All you have to do is walk around in the costume, handing sweets out to the kids.” Sue explained, handing me a sack of clothing and a tin of Quality Street. I disappeared into the offices and reappeared, scarlet-clad and snowy-haired. “Ho ho ho” I laughed jovially, sweet tin in hand. Pre-school children stared open-mouthed, a mixture of wonder and terror on their faces. Isn’t it odd? We spend all year telling them not to accept sweets off of strangers, and then at Christmas… Older children looked at me shyly, embarrassed by their belief, but, for the most part, believing anyway. Teenagers looked and laughed, making jokes behind their hands. A girl of about eight confronted me, hands on hips, cross expression on her face. “Ho ho ho?” I ventured, tentatively holding the sweets between her and me. “You’re not the real Father Christmas!” she accused. “Erm, yes I am.” I ventured. I felt that, as an adult, I should have the natural advantage and authority here, but it didn’t appear so. “No, you’re not. You’re the man that helps that lady put her stuff out on the table. I saw you.” “Ah. There’s a reason for that. Now, it’s a secret, so you mustn’t tell anybody. You know Superman?” She nodded impatiently. What sort of moron was I if I thought she didn’t know who Superman was? “Well, you know how, when he doesn’t want people to know he’s Superman, he pretends to be Clerk Kent?” Another nod. “Well, I’m really Father Christmas, but when I don’t want people to recognize me, I pretend to be the man that helps that lady with her table.” Her eyes opened wide enough to fall out. “Really?” she gasped in awe. “Really” I replied, handing her a coffee cream. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.” And I walked off, desperately avoiding eye contact with the mother of the astonished girl.
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