DUBAI // “Imagine yourself as a kid. Try to be in the place of a kid. Understand that Santa should be a real magical creature.”
That’s what I’m told by Marina Stanevko of Invent Creative Event Solutions. The meeting-room table over which we talk is covered in Santa paraphernalia, all of which I’ll shortly be wearing at the Hard Rock Cafe.
For today I become Santa.
I have played Agamemnon, Lear, Jacques, Prospero, Feste (twice) and the Dane.
But never Santa.
Like Daniel Day Lewis, I am a method actor. I have spent several days in character as Santa.
I make a mental note to constrain my eccentricities in front of the children.
“You will get very sweaty,” warns Marina.
“Can I hear your ‘Ho ho ho?’” she asks.
“Ho, ho, ho.”
The best thing to do, Marina says, is to “trick kids into telling you details, so that you can bring them up later. You have to be a real psychiatrist or wizard.”
I am given a fake belly. Apparently there’s more than one kind: I’m given one that mimics pregnancy. I am bearded up, and have put on my suit, hat, belt, generous trousers, white gloves and fake eyebrows. The last of these resemble large, white prawns.
I look at myself in the mirror: I am an authentic Santa doppleganger.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I say, with increasing confidence. “Ho, ho, ho.”
Tiny polystyrene balls cover the floor of the Hard Rock, snowlike, and drift hesitantly to the floor when thrown. Children launch themselves into them, and on their backs make snow angels.
An ersatz grotto has been assembled between two fir trees, complete with a photo booth, to facilitate production of Santa-and-me group portraits.
Looking dashing, in the polystyrene snow, I make my way to the Santa station. I look down to discover that a small boy is hugging me. His name is James.
“My name is Santa,” I clarify.
“Do you remember me, Santa?”
I improvise. “I met you this time last year, didn’t I?”
Because it was Christmas this time last year! I have passed my first test.
“How old are you, James?”
“Five.”
“I’m several hundred years old, more or less.”
James wants a PS4 for Christmas. “I love you, Santa,” he says.
“Ho, ho, ho.” I bellow.
The conversation runs out of steam after this.
Yousef wants a toy snowman. Jennifer is having a lovely day. Both allege that they have been good this year.
“Where is Santa from?” asks one child. “Lapland,” I say. “Where’s that,” she says. “Near Svalbard,” I say.
I sing a few bars of White Christmas to some children, who look at me curiously.
It’s hot. My glasses are steaming up, and I estimate that I’ve inhaled about twenty grams of fake hair from my synthetic beard. In the bleak midwinter, it’s 24 degrees.
By the end of my shift, I am seriously dehydrated. My vision is filled with white snowflakes, and I am very hoarse.
After abandoning my outfit, I notice that my chair has been removed from between the two Christmas trees. They look lonely.
Normally dressed, I am asked by a small child where Santa is.
“He’s gone back to the North Pole.”
“Are you Santa?” I’m asked.
“There’s a little bit of Santa in all of us.” I reply. (Well – I didn’t, but I wish I had.)
I have great admiration for children’s entertainers.
There’s something wonderful about a job whose main purpose is to keep kids in a happy, imaginative world. And it’s deeply satisfying to see a child grin broadly because of magical realism and unconditional affection. And though I am normally profoundly cynical, I was warmed to be part of the reason that children were enjoying Christmas.
It’s truly a retail bonanza with a heart.
* As impersonated by Adam Bouyamourn
