So we enter the door with the sign saying grotto. Behind other parents holding hands of other infants thinking they’re all on death row.
And so we wait, and to me for what seems like an eternity, so to a child, bloody hell it must seem like an eternity plus an extra twenty minutes.
Trying to waste time by stroking artificial, vibrating reindeer; powered from the socket on the wall by a lead, coming out of its arse and munching chocolates off a female elf, proving there’s no sexual discrimination in Santa’s workshop.
Eventually, it’s his turn to enter Santa’s den, or by the look on his face, hell! He latches onto me refusing to look at the beast’s face let alone make eye contact.
Upon hearing the beast talk, even say his name we’re allowed to leave and go to another room for my son to choose a gift.
He probably thinks it’s a reward for surviving the beast. As he picks up a Thomas, the Tank Engine book he smiles and happily wanders off on his way.
I guess Christmas is all about the kids!