Wow. I thought I didn’t have anything to say on today’s theme except a barely remembered trip to see Father Christmas in Warrington with my aunt. Then I began writing and I got a flashback.
Today Katy wants us to talk about a memorable trip to see “Santa”, I refuse to use the Americanised name so I shall stick with Father C.
When I was in primary school every year, like many, they did a Christmas fair. It was always such a huge occasion – classrooms would be rearranged, the hall would gain tables, the corridors would have their tables moved or altered. Until stalls lined both main corridors, classroom curtains would be pulled back and more stalls would be inside and the hall would be filled.
In the centre of the school was a small garden, apparently it can be called an atrium? Nobody on the outside knows its there. Anyway, in the centre of the school was also an additional room. Over the years it’s had many purposes but for a long time whilst there it was a music room. It had stairs which reached up to the back of the room, which unfortunately were taken away at some point.
My most memorable visit to old Saint Nick was when those stairs were still in action.
The room had two doors, perfect for a Father Christmas’ Grotto. It was always heavily decorated to the point where the room looked nothing like it once had. Fake snow lay at our feet, small twinkly lights covered the walk up to the stairs to see Father Christmas and it was always such a winter wonderland. I remember it always felt like such a long walk when waiting in line.
But up at the top, hidden behind fabric, was the man himself. Probably the fourth most important man in many small children’s lives (behind their own dad and grandfathers, maybe fifth nowadays with stepdads and gay dads).
I don’t remember my trips that well as it’s been a long time since I walked up those wondrous stairs excited to meet Father Christmas.