Hanging up my bells

My last week in the grotto was as crazy as ever.

What with the snow pelting down, we all thought people would be deterred from the shopping centre but the buggies were rampant.

One even took a big chunk of the grotto door with it, as it left.

And countless people wanted their buggies in the photo with their children, which looked utterly ridiculous.
Before entering the grotto several parents also took to asking me if their buggies would be ok round the corner. Did they think I was psychic or security?

My job has involved multitasking, but not that much.

In this final week we were also given some “advice” - about the grotto that is.
As several people told us how the open grotto ruined the magic or Christmas and the mystery of Santa, I decided it best to let them rattle on until they felt better.

They didn’t understand that we just worked there and I didn’t understand why they cared.

The week also ended with a boy I’d seen countless times, making a comeback. The first time I saw him, his parents were nowhere to be seen and despite not speaking English, he was content enough sitting next to Santa. Now his picture appeared again on the computer screen, with one noticeable difference. This time he was dressed as a girl!

The same man has watched us from the same sofa every day, and I had my first star-struck grotto moment by the first vaguely famous person I met on my penultimate day as an elf.

At the beginning of the week the snow chucked it down so hard, the shopping centre closed two hours early. Unfortunately this happened just as the grotto had just closed for the day, and stranded without a car, one kind elf gave another two, including me, a lift part way home.

I was taken pity on and spent the night at a very good friend’s house, and as I got a lift back to work with fellow elf in the same clothes, it was as if the day had never ended.

We started saying our goodbyes to elves on the Tuesday and the elf who had given me the lift laughed as he had five minutes left and I had five minutes plus another ten-hour day to come.

To my amusement it turned out he just couldn’t get enough of the grotto and appeared half way through the following day to take over someone else’s shift.

“We’ll finish it together,” he said.

And so we did, but no day, even a last day would be complete without an abusive family who were adamant they were getting into the grotto despite it being two minutes before the end of the day and not having a ticket.

This time I didn’t mind finishing ten minutes later, well not as much, because I was soon to leave the grotto forever.

There was a tinge of sadness as I hugged my fellow elves goodbye and we vowed to meet up in the New Year.

It felt like we’d been through a lot together.

Despite usually feeling exhausted at the end of the day I was the most energetic I’d been and after jumping up and down a few times I ran off into the distance, well into Banana Republic at least.

An elf is just for Christmas after all.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide

I knew it was going to be a bad morning, as soon as I arrived at the grotto and saw the face of the woman that made my eyes well up the previous night.

As anyone who works in retail or in a customer service capacity will know, despite being the five minutes before the end of the day usually being a happy time, it is also one of extreme stress: You know you’re going to get a customer just before you close and they are going to make your life hell.

If you’re in an office and have no face-to-face contact with a person you just don’t have to answer the phone, but in retail there is nowhere to hide.

I won’t go into details about this woman because it makes my temperature rise just thinking about her and despite lumps of snow still falling off my roof I’m not that cold that I need it to!

I should have finished ten minutes before this woman smelling of alcohol and fags decided to make a scene and as her face greeted me the next day on the computer screen my stomach lurched.

Dragon woman

Computer problems and a queue of people are not a good mix.

As the supervisor uttered her daily words: “I’m just going to do a stock-take, will you be ok for a bit,” my immediate nod of the head was short-lived.

Ten minutes later and we really weren’t ok. The queue was starting to resemble a pile up on the M25, the supervisor was AWOL and I had to break the news to parents that although we could take their children’s photos with Santa, we wouldn’t be able to print them.

I started taking abuse form left right and centre. It was a sad day as I started to feel that the human race was really quite nasty.

One woman with glassy blue eyes was particularly unpleasant. Upon hearing the photo news, she argued with me about taking her own photo in the grotto, her thoughts being if the printer didn’t work, surely she should be allowed to take her own.

But unfortunately life and work are never that clear-cut and whilst I could understand her point, as she continuingly threatened to come back and take her own photos in the grotto (which isn’t allowed) if the problem wasn’t rectified, I wanted to hit her over the head with Santa’s sleigh.

As it turned out, she was all mouth and no trousers, as her sheepish husband later turned up without her to see if he could get the pictures printed which weren’t really that great anyway.
He was polite as punch and very grateful, probably because it meant he wouldn’t have to deal with his dragon of a wife.

This set a trend for the day. Why was it always the women who wanted to pick a fight and the men who were as nice as pie, just wanting a quiet life, and, wherever possible to stop their wives making a scene.

Luckily during the stress levels I managed to hold my nerve and not blubber, and after we closed the grotto for a while, turned the computers on and off a few times, things were back on track. Hunky dory… for a while anyway…

Awkward silence

Should I stay or should I go?

Usually it’s the crying children that prove draining. They don’t want to be there, so why the adults insist on taking them to see Santa I do not know

But the flip side can prove even more exasperating, this time for Santa.

When the children hide their faces in shyness or fear, that is one thing, but when they say nothing and continue to sit there as the adults rattle on, on their mobiles, the mother of all awkward silences is… well awkward.

One Santa just looks straight ahead, saying ‘bye now’ in an attempt that by ignoring the children, he will send them on their way, another Santa looks like he wants to give the children a big shove out the door and the other looks despairingly at the adults in the hope that they will put down their phones and pick up their daydreaming children.

Demands and more demands

As time goes by and Christmas draws ever closer, people are becomeing more demanding, or so it is in Santa's grotto.

In weeks gone by we used to take down the names and ages of children in order to welcome them to the grotto and get them the right age present.

Now we get corrected left right and centre, where every name has three spellings, and some are just bizzare (See earlier post). Princess and Apple eat your heart out, it's all about the Octaviors and Marzipans now.

I have even seen some parents cross-out wrongly spelt names and change them to some kind of space-age version, whether it be an f instead of a ph, three zs or a ben with two ns.

Seemingly it is also popular to give siblings names beginning with the same letter and two letter names. Anne is now slashed to An. Next thing you know Ben will become Be.

Upon entry to the grotto and after a river of tears there is a demand to take the perfect picture. I can tell you having worked for a month in the grotto, when to give up on a capturing a good photo and when to click away.

Basically if they cry when they come into the grotto, you may as well go home because it's not going to happen. I sometimes want to scream, but instead shake my rattle until my head starts to feel fuzzy and I worry I will give these children a helping hand in their scarred-for-life memories of Santa Clause.

I've probably given hundreds of them a phobia of rattles or anything that rings. If they don't answer the door to people it'll be all my fault. They will end up alone and afraid to answer the door.

Then again maybe that will be a blessing if their parents are still as demanding when they are old enough to live alone.

Us Elves really can't win. I spent yesterday getting asked if I could give siblings the same presents despite their difference in age: "Just so they won't fight," said one anxious mother.

But low and behold, today someone was upset we did give her siblings the same present, even though they were appropriate to both their ages.

What is an elf to do?

Finally when it's time to buy a photo (which i might add is not compulsory) no more can we flick through the photos, print and take the money. No. that was November, this is December don't you know.

Now we have to crop, do red- eye removal (which does not work, when I do it at least, but if you pretend it does they usually believe you) and I have parents advising me which way to move my mouse.

Who's the elf, me or you, I think to myself.

They are trying to take control day by day, but I'm staying strong. I have the outfit and that must count for something right?

Stupid questions

Questions people asked and what I wanted to say but didn’t:

Where is the entrance?
Where is says entrance.

Do I need a ticket?
Yes, hence the ticket office.

How does this work?
Erm, you go and see Santa?

Where do I get a ticket?
Erm the bit that says ticket office?

How much are the photos.
£5 each.

So how much for two?
Are you being serious?

Extra hours

Yesterday I woke up to a barrage of messages on my phone. The first was from the grotto manager who asked if I could call her back: “It’s urgent.”

The second was from a supervisor I don’t work with who sounded like she was frothing at the mouth as she announced that they were “two elves down.” And the third was from another supervisor asking if I could work the following day/that day/any other day.

I felt so bad I contemplated cancelling my plans (even some of my weekend) but then realised that the amount of money I would get wouldn’t really be worth me getting out of bed.

If I’d worked any more this week I would have turned into lurgy elf (see previous post) and then been replaced.

Lurgy elf gone, we now have another male elf. Luckily for him he also has the chance of replacing Santa if he’s breathed in too many kiddiewink’s germs.

The believer

Today, two strange things happened. The first: Santa said sitting in the grotto reminded him of being in hospital.

I never got to the bottom of that because I was interrupted to attend to some children.

The second: I was told that a 7-year-old boy still believed in Santa.

I exclaimed in amazement. She had to be kidding. But no, his mother even whispered this to me so as not to ruin the illusion for her son.

I took a vow of silence and then she let slip a bit of information that perplexed me.

She told me how he had already been to visit Santa’s grotto in Harrods.

And he still thinks there’s one Father Christmas?

Maybe he thinks Santa does a tour of shopping centres.

Not far from the truth. As long as he doesn’t find out that there is more than one in different shopping centres all at the same time!

There's no escape

I have now seen four people I know when I’ve been dressed in my seasonal red and green outfit with bells on.

The first was a friend’s mum, and remarkably I didn’t feel embarrassed at all.

Next it was a teacher from school. She never taught me but I found myself staring at this woman who seemed very familiar. She asked me what I was doing, as if it wasn’t obvious, although I hastened to add that this wasn’t a job for life just for Christmas.

She wished me luck and I thought g-d I need it.

Then came my friend and her mum when the grotto surrounded by screaming kids and I tried to stop my painted red cheeks from getting even bigger.

On the down size there is no escape, but on the plus side what other job allows your friends to ccome and say hi!

I am no Santa

Every time I see a buggy I begin to feel a stab of anxiety.

Today, I rush up to the counter as a pink Maclaren buggy approaches, ready to welcome its occupents to the grotto, but it glides right on past and I am shunned.

Of course the real reason I shot up out of my chair was to tidy the leaflets on the counter.

When the buggies finally do arrive I end up holding them and sometimes even balancing my foot on the seat so as to stop them falling over while the child has a tete-a-tete with Santa. I even mange to keep my leg on the buggy while taking their photo.

If that isn't multi-tasking I don't know what is.

Who makes these buggies and why to they have to topple over when there isn't enough weight in them?

Surely there is a better design than one that catapults shopping bags everywhere as soon as you let go of it.

I've also noticed that Santa is getting a lot more waves than I am and I feel a bit sad. Santa may just sit there barely moving, but he is Santa.

I can't compete.

As 'Santa’s helper,' I pack sacks, welcome people to the grotto, takes names and ages, explain where the entrance and exit is, (which seems to be hard for some people to follow), make photos, magnets, key rings, get kids to smile, take money, bookings, rubbish and abuse whilst holding buggies, rattles and lattés, but I am no Santa.

Without the beard I just can't compete.

No photos

“Jacob, Jacob and sons” I want to start singing as a woman surely too young to have so many children even for an orthodox Jew, shouts his name so many times it starts to lose all meaning.

Jacob is followed by a troop of biblically named children.

This family sets the trend for the day, as they come to collect their free presents, but do not, I repeat not, want to have their photo taken.

A pattern is emerging; some people just don’t want to be caught on camera visiting Santa, whether it is a religious Jews, a mother whose child has been sick all over her sleeve or the guy who has been dragged along by his girlfriend.

They are all worried about what people might think.

Truth is no one really cares. I have seen countless people - different nationalities, religions, races and creeds passing through the grotto, and really it’s just a bit of fun, or not depending on how much the children are crying.

I am still however, not sure how to deal with Jews when I see them walk by. I’m used to waving 30 times a minute, with a face that aches with smiles, and wants so badly to slip into a frown just once.

But somehow I stop when the noticeably religious Jews and their strollers waltz by, especially being Jewish myself.

I haven’t quite worked out what the etiquette is.

Of course for much of the time I don’t have to worry, those that don’t want to get caught in the waving game usually duck their heads or pretend to be on the phone or running after a child.

Actually, I take back the latter, there are children running around all over the place, their minders clearly not being one’s for over-exertion.

Dazed and confused

It’s Wednesday and I begin the day with a blow to the head and end it with a bruise to the leg.

As if my alter ego isn’t run ragged enough, I have volunteered to come in half an hour earlier in the morning and stay half an hour later in the evening to set up and shut down the grotto.

I arrive at the grotto bang on time despite a painfully slow crawl in a car where the indicators have decided to take a sabbatical.

I help supervisor elf do a stock-take of presents. Note to self: Do not carry on a conversation whilst counting, it really doesn’t work.

I am then tasked with setting up the computers and camera equipment and opening up the grotto doors, which is when the killing of the brain-cells occurs.

Slightly dazed I spend the next five minutes locating pens which always seems to be a mission, and so the day begins.

Almost oblivious to my elf attire, I struggle to understand why so many people are staring at me. I hope to g-d I haven’t got my skirt tucked into my knickers.

After a quick feel it is of course clear that a) I am not wearing a skirt and b) I am an elf.

Maybe I have concussion.

But there is not enough time to think about the fact that it hurts to think. No, the buggies are arriving.

Post-lunch-falling-on-the-stairs, and having to spend my break with ice stuck to my leg, one parent asks if Santa has to be in the photo. I look at her like she is mad and she looks at me as if I am mad for looking at her like she is mad.

It was time to put my foot down. Enough was enough. I thought it was a bit rich for someone to ask Santa to vacate his own grotto.

It’s like asking the zookeeper to take the animals for a walk down the main road so visitors can have a photo with the enclosure.

Freak-show

“It’s like being in a freak-show,” said Santa.

I had to agree. It was only 11.30am and I was beginning to feel an affinity with Sylvia Plath’s, Lady Lazarus; the peanut-crunching crowd ogling us from the balcony above.

It’s starting to feel a bit like being in a zoo, only here’s the thing: An animal in a zoo may be stared at, cooed at, taken photos of, but the difference is, you get fed, and I for one was very hungry.

The shoppers are the keepers, waving their skinny lattés at us and walking on.

The closest I got to that latté was holding it for one not so yummy mummy as she put her feet up next to Santa.