Thank You, Santas.
20.12.2021
Saturday 18th December. 2021. It’s freezing cold and I nestle down into my thick scarf as we walk down the street, passing a cute cafe offering a full Sunday roast for £6.50, and arrive at the outdoor section of the shopping centre complex. I say complex but actually I don’t know if that’s the appropriate word. I’m used to Westfield and Brent Cross, the Trafford Centre and Bluewater. This - the Ladysmith Shopping Centre - is based in Ashton-under-Lyne, the small town about 30 minutes outside of Manchester that my husband is from. Usually I quite enjoy the Ladysmith. I never get lost, Rosie’s is a dog-friendly cafe with a great menu and anywhere I can get three books for £5 at The Works is good with me. Today though we’re eager to make the visit as quick as possible, no unnecessary diversions for a Christmas novel or a box of poppets allowed.
Omicron is sweeping the nation and suddenly, once again, everyday activities feel inconceivably risky. Though we’ve briefly escaped the current Covid hotspot of London to do a panicked visit to my in-laws, there are only six days till Christmas and we desperately still want to host the family at our place as planned. We’ve got to the point where I do risk analysis for every action we take, driving my husband to distraction, and then berate myself for getting distracted in a shop and browsing in what we’d once have called ‘a normal fashion’. We pop on our face masks, swing by WHSmiths to grab some gift tags and I barrel backwards out of the shop as a woman with a hacking cough also begins blowing her nose and shuffling ever closer to my husband in the queue.
Essential purchase procured we decide to head straight back to the car. We walk through the shopping centre and out past a Santa shaking a charity bucket while his tinsel pimped car blasts out Elvis singing I’ll Be Home for Christmas. We smile at the sight but frankly, much of my Christmas spirit is fast evaporating every time my phone pings with a BBC News update. In front of some of the outdoor shops, we walk past another Santa standing in the freezing cold, cheerfully greeting a line of kids and letting them pick out chocolate lollies from a large brown sack.
“That’s nice isn’t it?” my husband says.
I still just feel sad, remembering my own childhood visits to Santa. “Yeah but I wish he was in his grotto and they could sit on his knee and stuff.”
He squeezes my hand. “I know but look how happy they are!”
I look again and he’s right. The kid at the front of the queue is beaming, eyes wide with awe that he’s met Santa and I feel a rush of warmth briefly flush out the sadness. I feel grateful for that lovely man, probably freezing his bollocks off in the thin red suit while I’m grumpily stomping back to the warmth of my car.
Later, scrolling through everyone’s positive Covid test photographs on Facebook, I stop at a friend’s status. Becca met Father Christmas today, she’d written. The photograph showed her daughter pressing her palm to a perspex screen while on the other side a bespectacled Santa did the same. The dystopian image jarred momentarily and then I finished reading the post. Magical moment. I looked again at the photo and, crazy as it might seem, there was such a humanity to the image that I nearly started to cry. I could only see the side of the child’s face but I could see she was fixated on Santa, her body pressed close against the physical separation as she leaned towards him and her face lifted so she was gazing straight into his eyes.
Look, let’s not mince words, this Christmas is not shaping up to be exactly what we dreamed of and it’s totally fine to feel disappointed, depressed and outright furious. Still though, let’s be grateful for all those Santas who are finding creative ways to still ensure children get to experience a little festive magic. Here’s to you Santa.