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.