Santa A has me almost convinced he's the real deal. And I'm not the only one. Parents comment on his authenticity, passers by remark on the likeness, children turn up on Sunday and Monday (Santa B's days) and demand to see 'the real one'.
Every extra thing I learn about him supports his claim. He loves chocolate, he's very good at quizzes, does complicated sudoku puzzles daily, makes his own paella and he worked for a charity in Uganda at the time of Idi Amin. These all seem like plausible Santa attributes and activities.
It's becoming increasingly difficult for Santa B to compete. I'm not sure there ever really was a competition, but it's hard to know if his weakness is largely based on Santa A's strength. But then again, the camera doesn't lie. I struggled through Monday trying not to laugh at terrible photo after terrible photo - and for once it wasn't the child and/or parent's fault. It was Santa B. It is unfortunate that his fake beard covers his mouth so all you can ever see are his eyes. It is also unfortunate that as far as I know Santa B has never met Tyra Banks and never been taught to 'smeyes' (smile with your eyes). The result is either a sinister stare or a lack of looking altogether. 'Santa's asleep in that one', a phrase I heard more than once.
Not convinced he does see me when I'm sleeping after all. Santa A on the other hand - I'm pretty sure he knows everything.
Friday 25 November 2011
The Sick Update
I promised to keep you updated on the piles of sick beside the grotto. There have been no more.
The Outback
There is a place where elves are made. Where costumes are donned and make up is applied. Where the magical grotto day begins and ends.
It's 'out back'.
Through doors I had never noticed before in the middle of the shopping centre, you are taken to a cold dimly lit corridor. The corridor leads to a dirty plastic curtain. The curtain leads outside to the large recycling bins and badly parked delivery trucks. Walking around the trucks leads to a combination locked door. Typing in ******* leads to a sad room with two tables of six chairs, several copies of The Sun, a vending machine that doesn't work and a fridge that doesn't shut. Going through the door marked female leads to heavily padlocked lockers and a bathroom covered in traces of red facepaint.
We elves share this 'area' with the cleaners and service people of the shopping centre. There are extended bursts of bad language drifting through the air. Swear words sound much more shocking when you're dressed as an elf. You should try it sometime.
It is also the most cosmopolitan area of Belfast I have ever been to. If we must have people from other countries we like them to do jobs we don't want to. There a regular lunchtime conversations about burial rites in Nigeria and fashion trends in Poland. In any other country this would not seem in any way remarkable, but keep in mind Northern Ireland used to be so homogeneous that my brother tried to lick the first black person he saw in London because he thought he was made of chocolate. My brother was 27*.
Out back is probably the most incongruous place to walk around in dressed as an elf. But I'm beginning to forget I'm wearing a costume. We sit there at lunch, three elves and Santa, eating our sandwiches. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves. No-one else seems to want to sit near us. To be honest, I prefer being in the grotto.
*This may not be true.
It's 'out back'.
Through doors I had never noticed before in the middle of the shopping centre, you are taken to a cold dimly lit corridor. The corridor leads to a dirty plastic curtain. The curtain leads outside to the large recycling bins and badly parked delivery trucks. Walking around the trucks leads to a combination locked door. Typing in ******* leads to a sad room with two tables of six chairs, several copies of The Sun, a vending machine that doesn't work and a fridge that doesn't shut. Going through the door marked female leads to heavily padlocked lockers and a bathroom covered in traces of red facepaint.
We elves share this 'area' with the cleaners and service people of the shopping centre. There are extended bursts of bad language drifting through the air. Swear words sound much more shocking when you're dressed as an elf. You should try it sometime.
It is also the most cosmopolitan area of Belfast I have ever been to. If we must have people from other countries we like them to do jobs we don't want to. There a regular lunchtime conversations about burial rites in Nigeria and fashion trends in Poland. In any other country this would not seem in any way remarkable, but keep in mind Northern Ireland used to be so homogeneous that my brother tried to lick the first black person he saw in London because he thought he was made of chocolate. My brother was 27*.
Out back is probably the most incongruous place to walk around in dressed as an elf. But I'm beginning to forget I'm wearing a costume. We sit there at lunch, three elves and Santa, eating our sandwiches. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves. No-one else seems to want to sit near us. To be honest, I prefer being in the grotto.
*This may not be true.
The Smell
My elf suit has begun to smell. It can get pretty hot in there, and I'm not sure if I'm allowed to take it home and clean it. I hang it in the tiny locker I share with Bounce, and our two suits sit festering together. It's only been two weeks out of six. I'm trying to eat copious amounts of chocolate so that's all people will smell when they come near me but I think they're beginning to notice.
Word on the street is Santa has some Febreeze.
Word on the street is Santa has some Febreeze.
The Decision
Before elfing I would have said that the most difficult decision an adult has to make would probably involve career choice, marriage, raising children or health issues. I was wrong.
The most difficult decision an adult faces is whether to get a keyring, magnet or photo in the Santa's Grotto 3 for 10 pounds photo pack. That could mean getting 3 photos, or 1 keyring and 2 photos, or 2 keyrings and 1 photo, or 3 keyrings, or 1 magnet and 2 photos, or 2 magnets and 1 photo, or 3 magnets, or 2 keyrings and 1 magnet, or 2 magnets and 1 keyring, or 1 photo 1 magnet and 1 keyring. It really is very hard to decide.
And then we have to think about what granny would want.
The most difficult decision an adult faces is whether to get a keyring, magnet or photo in the Santa's Grotto 3 for 10 pounds photo pack. That could mean getting 3 photos, or 1 keyring and 2 photos, or 2 keyrings and 1 photo, or 3 keyrings, or 1 magnet and 2 photos, or 2 magnets and 1 photo, or 3 magnets, or 2 keyrings and 1 magnet, or 2 magnets and 1 keyring, or 1 photo 1 magnet and 1 keyring. It really is very hard to decide.
And then we have to think about what granny would want.
The Puppy
A few days ago a child came to see Santa. I was on the back till paying little attention to what was going on. There was a bit of commotion in the shopping centre. I looked up to see a man holding a gold box with a hole in the top. Something was moving. As the man came closer I realised it was a tiny puppy, and that the man was heading for the grotto.
As the child was sitting talking to Santa about what she wanted for Christmas the man snuck past me. The child looked up to see her dad holding what she'd just asked for. They all got a photo together and away they went.
A little while later the child's mother reappeared with another box. This time it was for us, Santa and his helpers, and contained many flavours of delicious chocolate. There was a card thanking us for helping them make their visit to Santa and the arrival of the puppy so special.
I felt a little guilty as at no time during the proceedings was I fully aware of what was going on. I have continued daily to eat the chocolates none the less.
As the child was sitting talking to Santa about what she wanted for Christmas the man snuck past me. The child looked up to see her dad holding what she'd just asked for. They all got a photo together and away they went.
A little while later the child's mother reappeared with another box. This time it was for us, Santa and his helpers, and contained many flavours of delicious chocolate. There was a card thanking us for helping them make their visit to Santa and the arrival of the puppy so special.
I felt a little guilty as at no time during the proceedings was I fully aware of what was going on. I have continued daily to eat the chocolates none the less.
The Emails
On our training day we were set a challenge. The shopping centre's marketing department told us that if we could get 2000 email addresses by Christmas Eve we would each receive a 50 pound gift card. All it requires is getting parents to sign up to an email newsletter, and receive a free colouring set in return.
With most people, it's a piece of cake. 'Do you have an email address? If you fill this in you get a colouring set. Do you want Peppa Pig or Star Wars?'. I'm sad to report Peppa Pig is, on ratio, around 5:1 more popular than Star Wars. To be fair we are dealing mostly with the preschool crowd.
For some people however, the concept is too much to handle. They fill out the sheet, I give them the set, only to look down and see that the email address line is blank. The only line that the form clearly specifies must be filled in to receive the gift. So what do I do? Rip Peppa Pig from the child's hands, simultaneously chastising them for their lack of Star Wars appreciation and hold the parent to ransom until they produce an address? Or, use the information they have given me to make up something I think might possibly pass for a genuine email. As much as I love taking things from children, the latter amuses me much more. I usually play it safe and go for some variation of their name @ generic popular email server. But sometimes, if they're younger or dressed weird I'll mix it up a little with 'weebelfastgirl' or 'ilovejustinbieber' or 'leopardprintisawesome' @ generic popular email server.
This was working nicely - everyone got the colouring set, I was entertained, until we got an update today that although we've collected more than 600 address, many were not counted due to emails bouncing back.
Plan B is to go through my old hotmail account from the days when everyone swapped email addresses, and actually sent emails, and use those of people I no longer care for :)
With most people, it's a piece of cake. 'Do you have an email address? If you fill this in you get a colouring set. Do you want Peppa Pig or Star Wars?'. I'm sad to report Peppa Pig is, on ratio, around 5:1 more popular than Star Wars. To be fair we are dealing mostly with the preschool crowd.
For some people however, the concept is too much to handle. They fill out the sheet, I give them the set, only to look down and see that the email address line is blank. The only line that the form clearly specifies must be filled in to receive the gift. So what do I do? Rip Peppa Pig from the child's hands, simultaneously chastising them for their lack of Star Wars appreciation and hold the parent to ransom until they produce an address? Or, use the information they have given me to make up something I think might possibly pass for a genuine email. As much as I love taking things from children, the latter amuses me much more. I usually play it safe and go for some variation of their name @ generic popular email server. But sometimes, if they're younger or dressed weird I'll mix it up a little with 'weebelfastgirl' or 'ilovejustinbieber' or 'leopardprintisawesome' @ generic popular email server.
This was working nicely - everyone got the colouring set, I was entertained, until we got an update today that although we've collected more than 600 address, many were not counted due to emails bouncing back.
Plan B is to go through my old hotmail account from the days when everyone swapped email addresses, and actually sent emails, and use those of people I no longer care for :)
The Names
As mentioned, part of an elf's job is to discreetly take down the child's name and get this information to Santa. Santa of course already knows the name, he just occasionally needs a few reminders.
If the child looks like it can speak properly, I incorporate a little 'and what's your name?' into the 'hi, i'm an elf, welcome to the grotto' spiel. This rarely works. I can't respond to their shy mumblings or incomprehensible child's voice with my usual polite nod of the head. I actually have to write the name down. I take what I've heard and hazard a guess, 'What's that, Robert?', 'No, Michael' the child/and or parent will angrily reply.
The other tactic is to ask the parent. That's simple enough, you're thinking. Well it is, except that if they're small, sometimes I can't actually see them from behind the till. I often don't know how many of them there are and I certainly don't know their gender. This can often be a problem even when I can see the child, and sometimes even after I've got the name. I can ask a clumsy, 'what's the child's name?' but that feels a little obvious and impersonal. So I usually settle for a 'What's h... name?' and make a sound somewhere in-between 'his' and 'her'. I have on occasion used 'it'. That's not something I'm proud of.
Then there's the names themselves. Now, having been a child cursed/blessed with an unusual name myself I know the pain of having to constantly spell it and having it constantly misspelt. I can't judge a child for having a strange name. I can probably judge the parents though.
Here are some of my favourites:
- Rihanna: Unless you have some Arabic connection or really love sweet basil (that's what the name means apparently) calling your child Rihanna suggests you want nothing more for them to produce frustratingly catchy pop songs and spend as much time as possible wearing as little as possible. There are far more baby Rihannas tottering around Belfast than you imagine.
- Kai: Way more popular than it should be considering the only thing I can link it to is the spawn of Wayne Rooney.
- Aaliyah: After the not that famous R&B singer who died. I'm sure she'd be pleased.
- Phoenix: Really? It was a girl by the way. Just one. There was also an Atlanta. Different family.
- Any name you want hyphenated with Lee/Leigh. Jamie-Leigh, Demi-Leigh, Courtney-Lee, Stevie-Leigh. Want a new baby name? Just add Leigh. Want to call your girl a boy's name? Just add Leigh. Alexaleigh (this time all one word) was my favourite so far. I hear there's a cure for that now.
And on top of all of these there's names that we're pretty sure have just been made up. Stick a couple of syllables together, no worries.
A joy of the job is telling Santa the name and us all having a good chortle about how ridiculous it is before bringing the child in. This can sometimes backfire if granny etc is standing behind us.
One other particularly local issue when taking down the names is the Irish language. Due to being born on one side of the road and not the other, I do not have the instinct ability to spell Irish names. When a parent comes in and says a name that is pronounced phonetically 'Sear-sha', I write 'Searsha'. But Irish being Irish, it is of course 'Saoirse'. Why spell things phonetically when you can have so much more fun adding extra letters? So I hand the ticket to the parent, receive the smirk and the 'that's not how you spell Saoirse' and see the flashing 'Ice is a big bigoted protestant elf' sign overhead. Even when it's an Irish name I know how to spell something always gives me away. 'You're one of the only people to spell Shea right,' a mother complimented me once, 'She forgot the fada*,' her partner mumbled. My co-elf Bounce has a free pass, she's originally from Mauritius so no-one expects her to be able to spell any of the names, but she does have to put up with more than one person asking if Bounce is her actual name - them traditional Mauritian names are really weird.
Thankfully in this day and age there is unlikely to be any retribution for my inability to spell Irish, though I can't help but feel the child is a bit more suspicious of my elfishness.
*if you don't know what a fada is and would like to you should check out http://lmgtfy.com/?q=fada
If the child looks like it can speak properly, I incorporate a little 'and what's your name?' into the 'hi, i'm an elf, welcome to the grotto' spiel. This rarely works. I can't respond to their shy mumblings or incomprehensible child's voice with my usual polite nod of the head. I actually have to write the name down. I take what I've heard and hazard a guess, 'What's that, Robert?', 'No, Michael' the child/and or parent will angrily reply.
The other tactic is to ask the parent. That's simple enough, you're thinking. Well it is, except that if they're small, sometimes I can't actually see them from behind the till. I often don't know how many of them there are and I certainly don't know their gender. This can often be a problem even when I can see the child, and sometimes even after I've got the name. I can ask a clumsy, 'what's the child's name?' but that feels a little obvious and impersonal. So I usually settle for a 'What's h... name?' and make a sound somewhere in-between 'his' and 'her'. I have on occasion used 'it'. That's not something I'm proud of.
Then there's the names themselves. Now, having been a child cursed/blessed with an unusual name myself I know the pain of having to constantly spell it and having it constantly misspelt. I can't judge a child for having a strange name. I can probably judge the parents though.
Here are some of my favourites:
- Rihanna: Unless you have some Arabic connection or really love sweet basil (that's what the name means apparently) calling your child Rihanna suggests you want nothing more for them to produce frustratingly catchy pop songs and spend as much time as possible wearing as little as possible. There are far more baby Rihannas tottering around Belfast than you imagine.
- Kai: Way more popular than it should be considering the only thing I can link it to is the spawn of Wayne Rooney.
- Aaliyah: After the not that famous R&B singer who died. I'm sure she'd be pleased.
- Phoenix: Really? It was a girl by the way. Just one. There was also an Atlanta. Different family.
- Any name you want hyphenated with Lee/Leigh. Jamie-Leigh, Demi-Leigh, Courtney-Lee, Stevie-Leigh. Want a new baby name? Just add Leigh. Want to call your girl a boy's name? Just add Leigh. Alexaleigh (this time all one word) was my favourite so far. I hear there's a cure for that now.
And on top of all of these there's names that we're pretty sure have just been made up. Stick a couple of syllables together, no worries.
A joy of the job is telling Santa the name and us all having a good chortle about how ridiculous it is before bringing the child in. This can sometimes backfire if granny etc is standing behind us.
One other particularly local issue when taking down the names is the Irish language. Due to being born on one side of the road and not the other, I do not have the instinct ability to spell Irish names. When a parent comes in and says a name that is pronounced phonetically 'Sear-sha', I write 'Searsha'. But Irish being Irish, it is of course 'Saoirse'. Why spell things phonetically when you can have so much more fun adding extra letters? So I hand the ticket to the parent, receive the smirk and the 'that's not how you spell Saoirse' and see the flashing 'Ice is a big bigoted protestant elf' sign overhead. Even when it's an Irish name I know how to spell something always gives me away. 'You're one of the only people to spell Shea right,' a mother complimented me once, 'She forgot the fada*,' her partner mumbled. My co-elf Bounce has a free pass, she's originally from Mauritius so no-one expects her to be able to spell any of the names, but she does have to put up with more than one person asking if Bounce is her actual name - them traditional Mauritian names are really weird.
Thankfully in this day and age there is unlikely to be any retribution for my inability to spell Irish, though I can't help but feel the child is a bit more suspicious of my elfishness.
*if you don't know what a fada is and would like to you should check out http://lmgtfy.com/?q=fada
The Positions
When informing people of my career they often ask, 'but what do you actually do?' in a way that suggests they think we just stand around all day looking elvish. When it's not busy, that's pretty much accurate. Sometimes we eat chocolate or make chitchat to Santa or make fun of the children, but that's not our official role.
There are three main positions in the grotto. Front till, photos and back till. Each has its pros and cons.
At the front you are responsible for explaining the seemingly incomprehensible pricing system to the parents and getting them to decide what they want. Telling me, 'two to see Santa', is no help whatsoever. I need to know if you want gifts, what age you want the gifts for, if you want a photo, how many photos you want, if you want any of those photos on a magnet or keyring instead - it can take awhile. On the front you are also responsible for taking down the child's name, but more about that later. You then have to ring it all in the till, make allowances for last minute changes and the fact granny now wants extra photos, and give the customer the 'magic ticket' (receipt) to hold on to till their turn. Hold on to, not shove it back in your bag where you will not be able to find it when you are asked for it a few minutes later. Depending on the length of the queue, you then move on to the next person. If there is no next person you make awkward conversation with the child and/or adult until it's time to see Santa. You also play 'guess which child will cry the most' internally in your head.
When there is extra staff a fourth position is created. The easiest position of all. The 'Bringer In'. All this requires you to do is take the 'magic ticket' off the child/adult, gather the correct presents from the age and gender coded present sacks, and get the child's name to Santa. You then return to the queue and lead them round. Your job is done. No money, no questions, no complaints - you are the bringer of good things, the fulfiller of dreams.
On a normal day the photo taker is also the bringer in-er. This causes some difficulty as usually the child runs ahead and there is a buggy and several extended family members between you and the camera. There is a fair bit of pressure being the photo taker. It's essentially your fault if they don't get the perfect pictorial memory of (insert child's name here)'s (insert number here) st/nd/rd/th (delete as appropriate) Christmas. It's not; it's probably either screaming child or annoying parent's fault, but you will be blamed none the less. This position requires the patience to politely move parents out of the way of the photo, and try 101 ways to make Junior smile, or at least not cry. If they're looking at the camera I'm usually happy enough. But some parents aren't, and it can turn into a 20 minute photo shoot.
The last position is at the back, printing out the photos. With the majority of customers this is fine. If they've asked for 15 keyrings it can be a bit time consuming but as long as the printers working it's quite a satisfying job. The printer does however, break once a day. With the parent who demanded a 20 minute photo shoot it will take at least another 20 minutes for them to decide which one you are allowed to print. For the less insistent parent, I've begun choosing the photo myself and only showing them one, which with overdone compliments about how well their child looks, I convince them to take. Much less time consuming.
The only other position I haven't mentioned is, of course, Santa. I've sat in the chair a couple of times. It was pretty comfy.
There are three main positions in the grotto. Front till, photos and back till. Each has its pros and cons.
At the front you are responsible for explaining the seemingly incomprehensible pricing system to the parents and getting them to decide what they want. Telling me, 'two to see Santa', is no help whatsoever. I need to know if you want gifts, what age you want the gifts for, if you want a photo, how many photos you want, if you want any of those photos on a magnet or keyring instead - it can take awhile. On the front you are also responsible for taking down the child's name, but more about that later. You then have to ring it all in the till, make allowances for last minute changes and the fact granny now wants extra photos, and give the customer the 'magic ticket' (receipt) to hold on to till their turn. Hold on to, not shove it back in your bag where you will not be able to find it when you are asked for it a few minutes later. Depending on the length of the queue, you then move on to the next person. If there is no next person you make awkward conversation with the child and/or adult until it's time to see Santa. You also play 'guess which child will cry the most' internally in your head.
When there is extra staff a fourth position is created. The easiest position of all. The 'Bringer In'. All this requires you to do is take the 'magic ticket' off the child/adult, gather the correct presents from the age and gender coded present sacks, and get the child's name to Santa. You then return to the queue and lead them round. Your job is done. No money, no questions, no complaints - you are the bringer of good things, the fulfiller of dreams.
On a normal day the photo taker is also the bringer in-er. This causes some difficulty as usually the child runs ahead and there is a buggy and several extended family members between you and the camera. There is a fair bit of pressure being the photo taker. It's essentially your fault if they don't get the perfect pictorial memory of (insert child's name here)'s (insert number here) st/nd/rd/th (delete as appropriate) Christmas. It's not; it's probably either screaming child or annoying parent's fault, but you will be blamed none the less. This position requires the patience to politely move parents out of the way of the photo, and try 101 ways to make Junior smile, or at least not cry. If they're looking at the camera I'm usually happy enough. But some parents aren't, and it can turn into a 20 minute photo shoot.
The last position is at the back, printing out the photos. With the majority of customers this is fine. If they've asked for 15 keyrings it can be a bit time consuming but as long as the printers working it's quite a satisfying job. The printer does however, break once a day. With the parent who demanded a 20 minute photo shoot it will take at least another 20 minutes for them to decide which one you are allowed to print. For the less insistent parent, I've begun choosing the photo myself and only showing them one, which with overdone compliments about how well their child looks, I convince them to take. Much less time consuming.
The only other position I haven't mentioned is, of course, Santa. I've sat in the chair a couple of times. It was pretty comfy.
Wednesday 23 November 2011
The Irritation
Everyday I use red snazaroo face paint to draw two circles on my cheeks and a dot on my nose. Everyday I worry I will forget to take it off before I leave. Everyday when I do take it off I notice that the skin underneath is remaining red. And getting redder.
Soon I won't need any snazaroo. Maybe I am actually transforming into a real elf. Maybe my ears will become pointy. Maybe I need to buy more moisturiser.
Soon I won't need any snazaroo. Maybe I am actually transforming into a real elf. Maybe my ears will become pointy. Maybe I need to buy more moisturiser.
The Play on Words
At least three times a day I hear a variation of one of these phrases:
'How's your elf?'
'I think you need to brush up on your elf and safety'
'Are you feeling fit and elfy?'
'Do you need any elf?'
'You could lend an elfing hand'
They are usually followed by a chortle.
I think the humour lies in the fact that the word 'elf' is quite similar in certain accents to the word 'health', and, at a push, the word 'help'. I think that's where the humour lies, I could be wrong.
'How's your elf?'
'I think you need to brush up on your elf and safety'
'Are you feeling fit and elfy?'
'Do you need any elf?'
'You could lend an elfing hand'
They are usually followed by a chortle.
I think the humour lies in the fact that the word 'elf' is quite similar in certain accents to the word 'health', and, at a push, the word 'help'. I think that's where the humour lies, I could be wrong.
The Lady
Look parent, it really undermines everything we're trying to do here if you keep referring to me as 'the lady'. Look at the hat, listen to the jingle bell, read the name tag - I'm an elf already!
The Accusation
I didn't judge her for her leopard print leggings that were attempting to pass for trousers. Or the exposed 'everything happens for a reason' tattoo on her lower back. I gave her the benefit of the doubt as she forced her child onto Santa's lap and stood demanding the perfect photo. Satisfied, she left, seemingly pleased with the end result. Another happy customer, next child please.
Returning from lunch I learn from my supervisor there's been a complaint. A parent has accused Santa of manhandling their child, accused him of being too rough, questioned his motives towards young children. I am outraged, I've been beside Santa all morning, there has been nothing of the sort - not even any refunds due to the terrified, crying children. My supervisor (Snapshot) asks me if I remember the woman - leggings, tattoo - my immediate recollection casts doubt on my lack of judging.
I am ready to fight to the death for Santa's honour, but first I let Snapshot finish the story. There will be no need to fight. A security guard came over after the complaint - he knew the woman, he had caught and banned her several times from the shopping centre for stealing, and this was not the first accusation she had thrown about. Santa was safe.
But I am still outraged. Perhaps even more so. Risking a good man's reputation and closing the entire grotto all for the chance of a five pound refund, and a free photo of your child with the man you accused. Good to know if your child really was harmed that's all it would take to content you.
I really didn't judge her for her appearance, or her status as a no doubt struggling single mum, but I do judge her for this.
Ice don't like no liars.
Returning from lunch I learn from my supervisor there's been a complaint. A parent has accused Santa of manhandling their child, accused him of being too rough, questioned his motives towards young children. I am outraged, I've been beside Santa all morning, there has been nothing of the sort - not even any refunds due to the terrified, crying children. My supervisor (Snapshot) asks me if I remember the woman - leggings, tattoo - my immediate recollection casts doubt on my lack of judging.
I am ready to fight to the death for Santa's honour, but first I let Snapshot finish the story. There will be no need to fight. A security guard came over after the complaint - he knew the woman, he had caught and banned her several times from the shopping centre for stealing, and this was not the first accusation she had thrown about. Santa was safe.
But I am still outraged. Perhaps even more so. Risking a good man's reputation and closing the entire grotto all for the chance of a five pound refund, and a free photo of your child with the man you accused. Good to know if your child really was harmed that's all it would take to content you.
I really didn't judge her for her appearance, or her status as a no doubt struggling single mum, but I do judge her for this.
Ice don't like no liars.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
The Disillusionment
'They always look smaller in movies', I heard a boy whisper to his mother in the queue. He looked at me with mistrust.
The End Bell
Yesterday the bell of my hat came off. I had been jingling it too widely whilst attempting to get babies to smile and it came off in my hand. It was, genuinely, upsetting. For the rest of the day when I moved, I moved in silence. Escorting Santa was not as much fun without the happy tinkle that normally accompanies my footsteps.
Mum sowed it back on for me last night. I jingled louder than usual today.
Mum sowed it back on for me last night. I jingled louder than usual today.
The Escort
At the beginning of every day, at lunchtime and at closing, Santa is escorted through the shopping centre.
This must always be done by one, but preferably two elves, standing on either side ready to defend to the death. There is not usually a fear of death, but one can never be too careful. This is Santa we're talking about.
I like to imagine the escort to the tune of 'The Show Must Go On'. Actually I like to imagine my entire elf preparation to this song: starting as I slowly put on my make up and sombrely place my jingle bell hat on my head.
Escorting Santa is fun. It commands respect. I may be in a suit akin to garish pyjamas, but I am with Santa, and everyone loves Santa. Everyone. Adults greet him with a formal, 'Hello Santa'. Middle aged women who work in shops tend to hug him. Children are enthralled and even teenagers are silenced by the greatness of the man that is before them. If they do say anything it is usually only a weak variation on 'I've been good this year, what will you bring me?' - not exactly the put down of the century. The one that asked for Justin Bieber and/or Peter Andre was admittedly entertaining.
But I digress. I enjoy being Santa's bodyguard, and that's all I've got to say about that.
This must always be done by one, but preferably two elves, standing on either side ready to defend to the death. There is not usually a fear of death, but one can never be too careful. This is Santa we're talking about.
I like to imagine the escort to the tune of 'The Show Must Go On'. Actually I like to imagine my entire elf preparation to this song: starting as I slowly put on my make up and sombrely place my jingle bell hat on my head.
Escorting Santa is fun. It commands respect. I may be in a suit akin to garish pyjamas, but I am with Santa, and everyone loves Santa. Everyone. Adults greet him with a formal, 'Hello Santa'. Middle aged women who work in shops tend to hug him. Children are enthralled and even teenagers are silenced by the greatness of the man that is before them. If they do say anything it is usually only a weak variation on 'I've been good this year, what will you bring me?' - not exactly the put down of the century. The one that asked for Justin Bieber and/or Peter Andre was admittedly entertaining.
But I digress. I enjoy being Santa's bodyguard, and that's all I've got to say about that.
The Destruction
Four days in and the grotto is looking tired.
The fake snow that outlines the path has been dirtied and downtrodden by the wheels of too many double buggies. The mini santas in the tree have leaves in their beards. A few toys are broken.
Yesterday a small Asian girl in a red jumper set about silently dismantling the scene. There was no parent, she was not queueing to see Santa, she did not demand a gift. It seemed she simply had a quiet mission to take things apart. The giant presents were removed from their boxes. Bows were ripped off. And the massive duck dressed as a beefeater took a battering.
Actual customers looked on bemused. I tried to reason with her, but she was not interested in communicating. She had a things to do. Realising that it is difficult to be stern and enforce discipline dressed as an elf, I feebly followed her around for awhile replacing items. Eventually she ducked under the barrier, ran through the grotto three times and disappeared.
The fake snow that outlines the path has been dirtied and downtrodden by the wheels of too many double buggies. The mini santas in the tree have leaves in their beards. A few toys are broken.
Yesterday a small Asian girl in a red jumper set about silently dismantling the scene. There was no parent, she was not queueing to see Santa, she did not demand a gift. It seemed she simply had a quiet mission to take things apart. The giant presents were removed from their boxes. Bows were ripped off. And the massive duck dressed as a beefeater took a battering.
Actual customers looked on bemused. I tried to reason with her, but she was not interested in communicating. She had a things to do. Realising that it is difficult to be stern and enforce discipline dressed as an elf, I feebly followed her around for awhile replacing items. Eventually she ducked under the barrier, ran through the grotto three times and disappeared.
The Fear
99% of 1-3 year olds are terrified of Santa.
They're fine with the concept of Santa, and the concept of seeing him. They excitedly queue ready to meet the man who can make all their toy filled dreams come true. They've even waved at him from a distance with such joy that Mummy and Daddy can't say no to their pleas to visit the grotto.
They're even okay when the elf comes to get them. They excitedly totter round the corner; then freeze. At this point the accompanying adult will do one of two things. They will, either, tired and irritated by the wait and wanting to get the stupid photo over and done with so granny/granddad/auntie/uncle will be happy, throw the infant at Santa, ignorant of the fear and desperation that is rapidly sweeping over their child. This drop and run photo shoot never works. Having been forcibly dragged across the floor and twisted onto Santa's knee the child is in the highest state of anxiety it has ever known. It will do anything to get away.
As the adult attempts to replace the child, legs and arms are extended to prevent any flexibility of movement - a scene reminiscent of trying to place an unwilling cat in a cat box. Tears are streaming, cries are getting louder and screams of 'no, No, NO!' reverberate through the grotto. The child clings to the guardian with such vigour, grabbing hold of any shred of clothing they can reach, desperately clamouring back to safety. They can't understand what they have done. Why someone they previously loved and trusted would take them to such a place and force them to be with such a frightening man. A world has been shattered. I feel like a prison guard, complicit in a ritualistic torturing of children.
Parent A will get increasingly annoyed, attempt bribery with the promise of treats later in the day, and angrily inform the elf to just take the photo despite the fact they are probably blocking the lens and the child has run away from Santa. At the suggestion that they sit in the photo with their child they recoil. 'I don't wanna be in the photo!' they exclaim, and wonder at their child's reaction. This scenario, 15 terrible photos later, eventually resolves in the adult giving up and taking the best of the bunch, or demanding a refund.
Parent B lets the child take its time. Santa offers them his hand and they choose when to come closer. They may still cry at the initial lift, and still frantically reach for rescue, but with a bit of Santa magic and some well timed distractions, a passable picture can be achieved.
Thankfully in photos, crying can often be mistaken for laughter. The tears are hidden by the light of the flash.
They're fine with the concept of Santa, and the concept of seeing him. They excitedly queue ready to meet the man who can make all their toy filled dreams come true. They've even waved at him from a distance with such joy that Mummy and Daddy can't say no to their pleas to visit the grotto.
They're even okay when the elf comes to get them. They excitedly totter round the corner; then freeze. At this point the accompanying adult will do one of two things. They will, either, tired and irritated by the wait and wanting to get the stupid photo over and done with so granny/granddad/auntie/uncle will be happy, throw the infant at Santa, ignorant of the fear and desperation that is rapidly sweeping over their child. This drop and run photo shoot never works. Having been forcibly dragged across the floor and twisted onto Santa's knee the child is in the highest state of anxiety it has ever known. It will do anything to get away.
As the adult attempts to replace the child, legs and arms are extended to prevent any flexibility of movement - a scene reminiscent of trying to place an unwilling cat in a cat box. Tears are streaming, cries are getting louder and screams of 'no, No, NO!' reverberate through the grotto. The child clings to the guardian with such vigour, grabbing hold of any shred of clothing they can reach, desperately clamouring back to safety. They can't understand what they have done. Why someone they previously loved and trusted would take them to such a place and force them to be with such a frightening man. A world has been shattered. I feel like a prison guard, complicit in a ritualistic torturing of children.
Parent A will get increasingly annoyed, attempt bribery with the promise of treats later in the day, and angrily inform the elf to just take the photo despite the fact they are probably blocking the lens and the child has run away from Santa. At the suggestion that they sit in the photo with their child they recoil. 'I don't wanna be in the photo!' they exclaim, and wonder at their child's reaction. This scenario, 15 terrible photos later, eventually resolves in the adult giving up and taking the best of the bunch, or demanding a refund.
Parent B lets the child take its time. Santa offers them his hand and they choose when to come closer. They may still cry at the initial lift, and still frantically reach for rescue, but with a bit of Santa magic and some well timed distractions, a passable picture can be achieved.
Thankfully in photos, crying can often be mistaken for laughter. The tears are hidden by the light of the flash.
The Stand In
Santa A works Tuesday to Saturday. Santa A has a real beard and kindly eyes and a soothing Yorkshire accent as previously mentioned. Santa A has santaed for 7 years and knows every trick in the book of getting screaming toddlers to smile for a photo. I'm 97% certain Santa A is the real deal, and so are the children.
Santa B's hat doesn't stay on and his trousers are too big. His beard is so small and yellow it is covered over with a fake one. His Belfast accent is coarse with years of chitchat driving taxis and chain smoking. He's a nice man, but he's a terrible Santa.
It is with disappointment I begin my shift on Monday and remember this is one of Santa A's days off. Actually, I later find out, he's tutoring maths. The children begin to arrive and with embarrassment I bring them through to meet their idol. I see the light drain out of their eyes, replaced with a cold disillusionment as Santa B limply asks them what they want for Christmas. To be honest, I'm not sure what he's saying to them. He speaks very quietly, to the point where I'm not sure if he's speaking at all or simply holding their hands and staring sinisterly into their face.
Understandably, there's a higher cry rate with Santa B. Santa A's expert baby soothing is replaced with a clumsy poking of the face, rewarding children who'd previously been okay with Santa with a lifelong fear.
The pictures, even when there is no crying, aren't much better. It's as much effort to get Santa B to look at the camera and look anything other than dead, as it is to get a smile out of terrified toddler.
He even forgets the presents.
Santa B's hat doesn't stay on and his trousers are too big. His beard is so small and yellow it is covered over with a fake one. His Belfast accent is coarse with years of chitchat driving taxis and chain smoking. He's a nice man, but he's a terrible Santa.
It is with disappointment I begin my shift on Monday and remember this is one of Santa A's days off. Actually, I later find out, he's tutoring maths. The children begin to arrive and with embarrassment I bring them through to meet their idol. I see the light drain out of their eyes, replaced with a cold disillusionment as Santa B limply asks them what they want for Christmas. To be honest, I'm not sure what he's saying to them. He speaks very quietly, to the point where I'm not sure if he's speaking at all or simply holding their hands and staring sinisterly into their face.
Understandably, there's a higher cry rate with Santa B. Santa A's expert baby soothing is replaced with a clumsy poking of the face, rewarding children who'd previously been okay with Santa with a lifelong fear.
The pictures, even when there is no crying, aren't much better. It's as much effort to get Santa B to look at the camera and look anything other than dead, as it is to get a smile out of terrified toddler.
He even forgets the presents.
The Confirmation
It's official. I am Ice the Elf. Twinkle is no more.
That's not strictly true, Twinkle is the perky 18 year old who works at the weekends when she's not studying drama at college. I guess Twinkle suits her better anyway.
Ice takes her elfing seriously. It is not without sober thought and a recognition of the weighty position she holds that Ice puts on her jingle hat and paints her cheeks red.
On the way from the changing room to the grotto a teenager heckles, 'Is Ice your real name?'. I wasn't sure if this was a poor attempt at an insult that ended up sounding merely inquisitive, or if the girl genuinely wished to know if I was christened 'Ice'. Whether or not she meant in the outside world, or she was revealing her belief in me as a full blown, lapland living, workshop working elf, I can't say. Either way, I answered her with conviction; 'Yes'.
Yes, heckling teenager, my name is Ice.
That's not strictly true, Twinkle is the perky 18 year old who works at the weekends when she's not studying drama at college. I guess Twinkle suits her better anyway.
Ice takes her elfing seriously. It is not without sober thought and a recognition of the weighty position she holds that Ice puts on her jingle hat and paints her cheeks red.
On the way from the changing room to the grotto a teenager heckles, 'Is Ice your real name?'. I wasn't sure if this was a poor attempt at an insult that ended up sounding merely inquisitive, or if the girl genuinely wished to know if I was christened 'Ice'. Whether or not she meant in the outside world, or she was revealing her belief in me as a full blown, lapland living, workshop working elf, I can't say. Either way, I answered her with conviction; 'Yes'.
Yes, heckling teenager, my name is Ice.
The Sick
My first two days of elfing have began the same way: a pile of vomit behind the grotto. The first day it was a slippy surprise, my embarrassment cured only by the man behind me who fell in it, not on it, as I has done. The second day I was forewarned and the shopping centre staff were already on the case.
It reminded me of wasted hours playing 'Theme Hospital'. the less popular cousin to the hit PC game 'Theme Park'. The majority of the game was spent slowly moving cleaners to poorly animated green blobs - a punishment for not getting your patients seen to in time. I wasn't very good at the game. It was, to be honest, boring.
I wonder if the start of every shift will be accompanied by the whiff of sick. I will be sure to keep you posted.
It reminded me of wasted hours playing 'Theme Hospital'. the less popular cousin to the hit PC game 'Theme Park'. The majority of the game was spent slowly moving cleaners to poorly animated green blobs - a punishment for not getting your patients seen to in time. I wasn't very good at the game. It was, to be honest, boring.
I wonder if the start of every shift will be accompanied by the whiff of sick. I will be sure to keep you posted.
Saturday 12 November 2011
The Treachery
I entered the dressing room to get ready for my shift only to find my costume moved and my name badge missing. I got changed, realised my actual costume had been swapped for one 10 times its size and went with the only name I could find: 'Ice'. I later discover someone took Snowdrop's name, so Snowdrop took Twinkle's and Twinkle got Ice. Also Glitter, who, not to be unkind, is substantially bigger than Twinkle/Ice, took Twinkle/Ice's costume because she wanted a smaller one.
So there's an identity crisis. I spent the day as Ice, which with its rapper connotations has a certain gangster elf chic, but in my heart I feel I am still Twinkle. It would also mean changing my blog title.
So there's an identity crisis. I spent the day as Ice, which with its rapper connotations has a certain gangster elf chic, but in my heart I feel I am still Twinkle. It would also mean changing my blog title.
The First Day
Writing as Twinkle the Elf, leaving the workshop and encountering the outside world for the first time there's a few things I noticed on day one in the grotto.
1. Children are fine, parents are scary. It should definitely be them who are threatened with the naughty list. Admittedly most of them had been queuing for 2-3 hours but if you bring your child to see Santa on the day of his big arrival what do you expect and STOP TRYING TO BUMP UP THE QUEUE.
2. We elves are capable of many things but we cannot use our magic to conjure up a great family photo if your child is screaming/crying/hiding/weird looking, even if it is 'baby's first Christmas'. Wait till baby has the ability to control its head movements before demanding a refund.
3. Stopping elves working to tell them how long you have been waiting will not make elves work any faster. Eventually getting to the top of the queue and spending 20 minutes deciding which photo of crying baby is best will also not speed things along.
4. Teenagers will never ever tire of heckling.
One day down, six weeks to go!
The Training
Elf training was set for 3 weeks after the interview which, not previously mentioned, I was successful in. Characteristically early and hovering around the area I was almost sure I was meant to be I spotted a portly bespectacled gentleman with a big white beard. SANTA! I KNOW HIM! I didn't say this. What I actually said was 'You must be Santa, I'm an elf' and did an awkward jazz hands gesture.He's called Kevin and he's from Yorkshire, with an accent that simultaneously makes me want to eat Werther's Originals and drink working class tea. It also makes me think of the Davis-Leighs. You probably don't know them. Another rookie elf was present and asked me what I did. I was confused, 'I'm an elf', I replied. Turns out she is 18 and still at school. I explained that I am a full time elf, following an elf vocation. There was a silence.
Our actual training turned out to be less than exciting procedural information and how to work the till. Highlights however were a) trying on our uniforms - changed from previous year's traditional red and green to an uncomfortable purple velour that couldn't help but remind me of Katie Price. The hat does have a bell however, b) choosing our elf names - I opted to pick mine at random to add a bit of excitement and was reasonably pleased with Twinkle. I could've been Snowdrop, or Glitter - but at least I didn't get 'Bounce', c) filling up the present sacks - this actually stopped being fun after 10 minutes as it required ripping open and folding up a lot of cardboard boxes but it was probably the closest we'll get to being in Santa's workshop.
The most crucial part of the day was probably though our quick fire, awkward questions children will ask, round. Or, as they like to call it, how to keep the magic of Christmas alive. I can now name all the reminder (although apparently there is some controversy over whether it is Donna or Donder - I prefer Donna), know Santa's favourite football team (Lapland United), and am aware of some complicated scientific reason as to why my ears are not pointy (elves get larger closer to Christmas and their ears grow out...).
Fully trained and ready to go, this is Twinkle the Elf signing out.
Our actual training turned out to be less than exciting procedural information and how to work the till. Highlights however were a) trying on our uniforms - changed from previous year's traditional red and green to an uncomfortable purple velour that couldn't help but remind me of Katie Price. The hat does have a bell however, b) choosing our elf names - I opted to pick mine at random to add a bit of excitement and was reasonably pleased with Twinkle. I could've been Snowdrop, or Glitter - but at least I didn't get 'Bounce', c) filling up the present sacks - this actually stopped being fun after 10 minutes as it required ripping open and folding up a lot of cardboard boxes but it was probably the closest we'll get to being in Santa's workshop.
The most crucial part of the day was probably though our quick fire, awkward questions children will ask, round. Or, as they like to call it, how to keep the magic of Christmas alive. I can now name all the reminder (although apparently there is some controversy over whether it is Donna or Donder - I prefer Donna), know Santa's favourite football team (Lapland United), and am aware of some complicated scientific reason as to why my ears are not pointy (elves get larger closer to Christmas and their ears grow out...).
Fully trained and ready to go, this is Twinkle the Elf signing out.
The Interview
I was very excited about my interview to be a 'Grotto Helper', imagining all sorts of weird and wonderful tasks to prove my love of Christmas and suitability as an elf. In the end it lasted 4 minutes and mainly revolved around whether I'd walk to work if it snowed. I said I would. The most exciting part about it was that my mid 50s, female, interviewer had the same hair as Slater from 90s hit TV show Saved By The Bell. She said they'd let me know by tomorrow and we parted ways.
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