Bald Santa

 'How do you know which one's the real Santa?' asked Geoffrey.

We were all - all being me,  Geoffrey, Alexa, Dave Nark, and the T-G - in Speedispend car park.  Right next to a flashing sign in the shape of a large finger indicating Santa's Grotto was THIS WAY, an empty trolley bay, a rusting coin-operated kiddies' Postman Pat ride and the disabled parking spaces.  Someone in an elf hat and a hi-viz jacket leaned against the wall at the far end of the building in a sickly cloud of cranberry-scented vape smoke.  Customers pushed past us whey-faced with half-empty trolleys and dead eyes.  Crumpled receipts and shopping lists blew around the car park in the mud.  It was neither sharply, healthily cold nor pleasantly mild, merely nasty.

The Grotto consisted of a fenced-off area indoors next to the customer service area and the photo booth.  Two Santas stood forlornly by a chair wrapped in white cloth and a strand of threadbare tinsel.  A third Santa pushed past us, hatless, revealing a shiny bald head with a tattoo of Mel Gibson in 'Braveheart' at the back.  'Jesus Christ,' he snarled,  ripping off his red jacket and throwing it into the back of a 2009 red Citroen Berlingo parked in the disabled bay.  'Thank fuck that's over.  And aye -  UM ARE disabled by the way.   No all disabilities are visible, so fuck aff or ah'll get yeez done for a hate crime.'

'That can't be the real one,' said Alexa. 'Santa isn't bald.  I don't think he's from Scotland.  And I think he's probably nicer than that.'

'How do you know?' I asked.  

'What does UM ARE mean?' asked Dave.

'I think we should just go home,' said Geoffrey. 'I don't like the Real World.'

'No no.  Hang fire,  Geoffrey.  Hang fire.  Excuse me Sir,' asked the T-G, approaching the bald Santa, who was waiting for the Berlingo 'heat rods' to warm up sufficiently for the engine to start.  'Might I enquire as to whether you are in fact, the real Santa Claus?'

Bald Santa glared at him as the engine finally coughed into life.   He raised his middle finger, wrenched the Berlingo into reverse and roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes.

'Oh dear.  Our search continues,' murmured the T-G.  

Later - we discuss our nasty day over warming mugs of Bovril and vodka by a roaring driftwood fire - upshot being that we pretty much needn't have bothered.  And Tuppence arrives with a mysterious visitor...

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