Jesting Pilate

“Are you,” asked a very small child with wide eyes, “the real Santa Claus?”

An impressively complex questions, as I am sure that you admit. 

One which, in many ways, one could say that the whole of my education and experience had been leading up to.  Here was something to tax what I laughingly refer to as my intellect.  Something to push my grasp of ethics.   Something to stretch my concept of morality.

That trusting face, filled with expectation and enquiry, open and innocent waiting for the truth.

The Truth.

I lied, of course.  Instantly and totally with the sincerity which I have laboured to make natural for the whole of my life.

But there again.  With legend, when whatever was once real is lost in the mists of time, interpretation when your representation is a real as it gets.  Perhaps I was telling the truth.

What I thought was going to be a quick appearance, a few waves and a few chortles did not quite turn out like that.

Enthroned on an old-fashioned high-winged bow-legged armchair in boots which had taken me minutes to get on and with a beard and moustache that refused to stay anywhere near my mouth I was trapped for two and a half hours as waves of small people came and received books from my white gloved hands.

Admittedly I only came into contact with the more foetal members of our school, but there did seem to be hordes of them.

They arrived class by class wide-eyed with wonder.  They clustered around me for a group photograph which was only possible because of their teachers’ ability to arrange the kids like a three-dimensional jigsaw in a matter of seconds ensuring that each face can be seen in the final photograph.  Watching them work was a Master Class on how to move small lumps of humanity into a convincing array of humanity.

Each child had an individual photo taken with “Santa” and no present was released into small grasping hands until each child had said, or at least mumbled a convincing version of “Thank you!”

“Santa” was regaled with various songs from the groups.  He was presented with letters.  One child gave him a piece of cake.  Yet another gave him a Christmas card, another a small plastic Santa and one enterprising child (who will obviously go far) gave him a toilet tube covered with crepe paper inside which was a scribbled picture, a small sweet, a plastic silhouette of a bear and a 50c coin.

From time to time Santa’s vigil was enlivened by colleagues arriving and, after emitting little squeaks of admiration or surprise at the transformation, having their photographs taken as well.

The best response however, was when Santa had just got changed and was waiting in the staff room.  One female primary school teacher came in and did not notice the Gentleman in Red until she turned round and then screamed and fell back on a table and then laughed to cover her rather extreme reaction.

Although the reaction of the children was gratifying, two and a half hours of bonhomie towards very small people with a limited command of English was a little wearing.

At the end of Santa’s stint he was supposed to transform himself into a normal teacher and help the Invisible Friends distribution of presents in the equivalent of a Year 8 class.

I am afraid to say that I pulled rank and declined to do anything more and after saying farewell to colleagues he went home.

And collapsed onto a reclining chair and waited for normal service to be resumed.

Within an hour or so Toni returned from Terrassa together with sister, mother and two nephews.

When they left we went out for dinner and had an excellent meal in a new restaurant in which we were the only diners.

An early night was called for.  And was had.

Saturday was taken up with a chaotic visit to the doctor for Toni in a medical centre where the electricity failed as soon as he entered the consulting room.  Chaos continued as he attempted to get a copy of his recent scan.  That is a continuing story.

My own visit was more conventional and my next appointment is scheduled for the 30^th.

And the car needs to be repaired as the acceleration has become faulty and the engine is racing.

Always there is something!