Polly is having none of this shit. I look down at the screaming, wriggling toddler in the furry blue hat and empathise. She holds on tightly to a half-eaten Milky Way. She wants to be here less than I do.
Her mum pleads with me through thick-rimmed glasses, telepathically impressing the need to make this situation better, but I have no idea how. Polly is the first child I’ve seen today and by the look on my supervisor’s face, she might be the last.
‘Oh, nownow!’ I say, in a voice which startles even me. It’s like Santa meets Ed Kemper. I try again in a slightly less serial-killer-esque tone. ‘No need to cry, little one. Tell Santa what you would like for Christ—’
‘MUuuuUUmmm!’
This is horrible. An undoubtedly blurry photo is taken as I hand Polly a wrapped selection box, before she’s placed back into her stroller by her flustered, apologetic mother now promising ice cream to appease her. The last thing that kid needs is more sugar.
I barely have time to take a breath before the next little darling has hurled himself on to my lap. At least this kid is enthusiastic.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him, staring at the snot bubble which has formed in his left nostril. God, this is grim. I see Geraldine skulking off towards the food court and immediately relax a little.
‘David,’ he replies, eyeing up my scratchy, nylon beard. It’s already driving me nuts, given that underneath is three days’ worth of itchy stubble regrowth.
‘And how old are you, David?’
‘Six!’ He replies with such a gusto, I can’t help but smile. Most adults say their age like it’s shameful secret, but David’s got the ageing thing nailed.
‘And what would you like for Christmas?’
‘A trampoline! Like Robbie’s. One with a net so we can do giant flips and tumbles and bounce and bounce and bounce!’
I glance at his waiting parents who are frantically shaking their heads behind their physically boinging child, letting me know that large, costly outdoor trampolines aren’t happening anytime soon. His dad mimes being on a bike and I nod.
‘Hmm, the elves had a problem with the trampolines this year,’ I reply. David stops springing, the excitement on his face quickly draining.
‘But they’ve made some amazing bikes! Haven’t you, Izzy?’
Izzy’s head spins around independently from her body and glares into my soul, indicating that she will kill me if I try and get her involved with los niños.I turn back to David.
‘So how about a nice new bike? Wouldn’t that be fun? Fancy new helmet too?’
David doesn’t say a word. He moves off my lap and folds his arms, glaring first at his parents and then at me. This is horrendous. How many children am I going to have to disappoint today? I need to convince him that bikes are better than trampolines.
‘They’re so cool, David! Honestly! Coolest bikes you’ve ever—’
‘NO! IWANTATRAMPOLINNNNEEEEEE.’
The screaming sound piercing my eardrum is almost enough to distract me from the sharp pain in my shin, but not quite. I yelp as David and his small yet powerful right foot are scooped up by his dad before he can inflict any further damage.
‘Fucking hell, kid! No need for—’
I hear the smallest gasp from a girl in the front of the queue and the sound of at least ten jaws hitting the floor, as David is carted off by his embarrassed parents.
‘Mummy! Santa said the F-word.’
Oh God.
‘Outrageous!’ one silver-haired granny yells, pulling her mildly amused child away by the arm. ‘Come on, Rosie, we’re not staying here.’
‘I’m s-sorry,’ I stammer as several of the parents and kids disperse, scolding me for being the worst Santa ever. The back of the queue doesn’t seem to realise anything is wrong, but I have no doubt that someone is already asking to speak to a manager. Once Geraldine finds out, I am so fired.
The rest of my day doesn’t run any more smoothly. I’ve never seen so many spoiled brats in light-up trainers demanding iPads, PlayStations and something called Ricky the Trick-Lovin’ Pup, which is apparently a toy dog but sounds like a toy pimp.
At 5pm I see Izzy pull across the rope behind the last child, letting everyone know that Santa is closed. After today, I’m starting to understand why Izzy seems so annoyed. Working with children is clearly a calling rather than a seasonal vocation.
‘And what’s your name?’ I ask the rosy-faced blonde girl who is already trying to grab for my beard. I’m so glad she’s the last one.
