Visit to Santa
The weeping child in this photograph is not me, but it may as well have been, for the first time I met the bearded, big-bellied bearer of gifts, I was scared witless and cried my eyes out.
The whole week had been leading up to the visit and I was beside myself with excitement.
Santa (or ‘Santy’ as he was known where I grew up) was ensconced in the toy department of a well-known shop in the town.
He looked like Santa should look – a jolly fat man with a red suit, billowing white beard, glasses and rosy cheeks.
I recall approaching him, my little legs shaking, thinking this was the man who, after watching my behaviour all year round, would break into my house via the chimney on Christmas Eve and would either leave me a Tiny Tears doll or a lump of coal.
When he asked what I wanted for Christmas, I literally couldn’t speak I was so overcome with emotion and awe. It was like being in the presence of a higher power (rather than Jim who usually worked the tills and was getting a few bob extra for sweltering in the red suit all day).
These days Santas are two-a-penny, and most are pretty rubbish, with their cheap polyester suits, ill-fitting beards and trainers. But, back in the day a visit to Santa was momentous. And I’m happy to report that the girl who cried big tears, did indeed get her Tiny Tears.