Something magical happened to me in an enchanted forest in Ascot, Berkshire in December 2022 ─ or to be more precise, Lapland UK; but before I tell all, I need to provide a wee contextual introduction …
Eons ago, one Christmas Eve aged around ten, I heard odd shuffling noises coming from the landing. Although tucked up in bed I decided to investigate; but I had to be cunning since my parents had given me a clear directive: “If you don’t go to sleep Father Christmas won’t come!”
Lifting myself gingerly onto my chest of drawers, I managed to have a gander through the window above my door (otherwise known in the adult world as the transom). At that precise moment the spirit of Christmas dissolved as I clearly saw my dad inching his way down the staircase with my new bike. The fat bearded one in a red and white jumpsuit was just an illusion; but ─ on the plus side ─ the presents were real!
So, for the next few years I perpetuated the fantasy, especially as there was no charge on my side. Then came a trigger point, I guess when I began to receive pocket money and I had to start putting my hand in my own skyrocket ─ consequently learning the depressing fact that money received often lasted a fleeting time in my possession. As a parent I repeated the duplicity with my children, and so the cycle of consumerism continued.
A recent suggestion to my kids – both of whom have now left home ─ that we don’t buy each other any presents, simply because we are in the privileged position to purchase pretty much anything we want under the usual festive benchmark of a hundred pounds, was met with derision!
My partner’s grandchildren – Arthur and sister Darcie – now four and two respectively – deserve a little more leeway since they are of an age where this type of nonsense is allowable ─ before the bubble ultimately bursts for both of them sometime in the foreseeable future. It is my duty to play along – isn’t it?
On an afternoon when the weather befitted the real North Pole, I duly explored a quaint reception area ─ impressively constructed within the towering Scots pines of Swinley forest – with my two little best buddies. The convivial feel was reinforced by the obligatory photograph on the welcome bench, with children ─ willing or not ─ held tightly by the grown-ups for the crucial cheese shot. Cast members dressed as elves added to the Christmassy feel, although at this juncture I was more focused on disguising my leaning towards bah humbug, especially in front of Arthur and Darcie.
Entering the first of several themed auditoriums, I was completely unprepared for what was to come as my concealed grouchiness evaporated in the blink of a misty eye. The elves deliberately, dynamically, and deftly, staged a show that made the children – “Small Folk” – the centre of their entire universe at that most miraculous moment. As a fully paid-up member of the “Big Folk” I became secondary to the spectacle unfolding around me. Dancing between groups of families, one elf struck up a charming conversation with Arthur that concluded with an important exchange; Arthur was now the guardian of a small suitcase with the word “Conker” painted on the side. Although a rather large piece of luggage for a then three-year-old, Arthur nonetheless rose to the challenge and held it like his very life depended on it. At that exact moment, I melted. My precious partner in crime with whom, amongst many activities, I sing silly songs and play with toys, became the teacher, and I the pupil. The awe on his face was unmistakable, as was the realisation of what I had just witnessed, and what I had lost touch with during the drudgery of growing up. Wonderment at the world around me is something that I subordinated many, many years ago, and I instinctively knew that my life may have been substantially different if I had sought to nurture this incredible and liberating asset. Seeing it in Arthur’s face during this most formative episode in his life is an experience that will remain etched on my memory for eternity. But Big Folk rarely cry, do they?
What followed was the most wonderful journey that – without giving the game away – created the believable narrative that the Small Folk had saved Christmas, with Arthur playing a significant part in this storyline, since the case which he protected with vigour contained a vital element in the completion of this famous triumph, with us Big Folk simply looking on.
Then the moment arrived. A carefully choreographed chapter of pure fantasy had us all skipping along a fir lined path towards Father Christmas’ house! Behind the scenes the Small Folk’s mum, Emma, had populated a portal that had safely stored key intelligence – friends, recent activities, and the all-important data – their essential present wish! Coupled with a personalised invite from the man himself that had arrived a few days previously, the Battle family – the force of nature behind the creation of this living fairy-tale – hadn’t missed a beat in this heart-warming adventure.
Arthur excitedly engaged in conversation with the elf on the doorstep of the pinnacle of this spectacular show, before the door creaked open and we were in the presence of the fat bearded one in a red and white jumpsuit. This was no illusion!
Darcie ─ somewhat suspicious of any unknown face outside of her close family ─ remained attached to mum, but Arthur beamed in the glow of the main event. I was convinced that if his little legs swung any more rapidly, a vortex would form underneath and elevate him to the ceiling. Then the spine-chilling moment occurred right in front of my eyes: “Arthur, you are on the good list. What about your best friend Jacob Brooker?” I gasped – and my little mate simply did his chum proud! “And I understand you had a sleepover at Nana and Ian’s the other night?” WOW! How did Father Christmas know this? The all-seeing eye! As my eyes welled again I managed to regain a modicum of composure as the penny finally dropped for a grumpy older man who had lost his sense of the significance of dreams decades previously; Arthur and Darcie’s parents – a shoutout for dad Ruairi – had given their two children the most precious gift of all. Better than any toy, gadget, or piece of technology ─ the superpower of imagination.
Arthur confidently explained that he most desired a big boy bike, whilst Emma, on behalf of Darcie, who will need a top up visit next year, confirmed that a new baby doll was sought by the youngest of the Small Folk.
As I floated away (back to the car park) I accepted that Father Christmas is real – at least in my own imagination – and that’s good enough for me!
© Ian Kirke 2023
@ianjkirke