Spacephiller with Phil Creighton
YOU NEVER forget your first time.
For me, it was the old Debenhams store, with a toy department seemingly the size of several football pitches and stacked with everything a small boy could ever want and then some.
It was back in the days of everything being in black and white, and to speak someone had to bring up a caption – the only noise was the organist accompanying the moving pictures.
A small section of the department – probably the caretaker’s broom cupboard – was transformed into a winter wonderland, a display that would make Young Mr Grace tell the team they’d all done very well.
Polar bears, elves, presents, snow. It all glistened and made me excited for the man waiting just around the corner.
Yes, the one who has a penchant for red capes, has a very long beard and, at the time, was able to let me sit on his knee.
Santa Claus had come to town, and he was here to give me the most probing interview of the year. Had I been good? Had I washed behind my hair and brushed my ears?
Yes, yes, and yes, I will continue to be good … well, until the stocking was overflowing.
It was a wonderful experience. It remains a wonderful memory.
But Santa then did something that was both amazing and confusing.
“Do you like cowboys and Indians?” he asked me. “Well,” I said hesitantly, wanting desperately to say the space race was more my thing, but also wanting to ensure he visited on Christmas Eve.
He handed me a present. A present. Before Christmas. What an unexpected pleasure.
Only inside were some tiny plastic cowboys and native Americans, each no taller than a shilling.
I kept them and played with them for a few years out of guilt, but to be honest, recreating the Wild West was not high on my list of priorities.
But none of that mattered – here was Father Christmas in the flesh.
Just as he was also, somehow, in the janitor’s closet at a Christmas fair. And the same chap who rang a bell and gave us all space shuttle pencil sharpeners at a school Christmas beano.
He was also there when the Lions came down my street, bearing sweets and carols.
You never forget, it’s exciting and all part of the Christmas magic.
Of course, it was never the same when the toy department was moved and shrunk. Somehow Santa ended up taking residence in the duvet department. That never felt right.
That year, I visited on Christmas Eve, desperately counting down the hours until he made his house calls. It was hugely disappointing when all I got for Christmas was a badge letting the world know I’d been to see Santa. Then again, he did warn me that he’d already loaded his presents onto the sleigh and he was letting me see him for free as a result.
Just to be on the safe side, an extra carrot was left out that night.
These experiences were almost as exciting when, as a grown-up, a famous German supermarket popped round to the old Wokingham Times offices (told you I dated back to the days when everything was black and white and read all over).
The great man called me over for a little word in my ear. Yes, I had still been good. I’m getting on a bit, so not really any hair to brush, other than the ones now growing out of the ears (clean).
Santa, I said with not a hint of shame, could I have a bottle of Scotch?
He promised he would see what he could do.
And, in a Christmas miracle sure to gladden the hearts of even the Scroogist Scrooges, lo and behold a bottle landed up on my desk a few days later.
Yes, visiting Santa is magical.
If you’re one of his special helpers this Christmas, remember that you are making memories that will last a lifetime. Oh, and I have no shame. Lidl – I mean, Santa – my bottle is empty, please send Scotch.
