With 3 boys under 6, Buggy Blogger mum to J (5), B (3) and S (1) certainly has her hands full. This week it’s full steam ahead to Christmas.

Christmas is coming, the porky pies are getting fat. Lying to your kids, now just fancy that!

With less than a week of windows left on the Advent Calendar, we’re all steamed up for Christmas. Is there tension in the air? You bet. And the boys are letting off pressure with a surge of questions. I’m deflecting them this way and that, not always entirely truthfully. But what the heck, they’re so wound up they’re not really listening to a word I say.

Q: “Mummy, what’s in the big box the postman brought?”
A: “Erm, it’s:
- a package we’re minding for next door
- come to the wrong address
- a spare part for mummy’s veeerry boooring blender.”*

*(delete as inappropriate)

Q: “Mummy, is Rudolph real?”
A: “But of course!” (Let’s face it, when TV viewing offers up a blue cow and an outsized red dog, what’s not to believe in a red-nosed reindeer?)

Q: “Mummy, what about our friends in Australia? If they’re asleep when we’re awake, is it December there too? And when does Father Christmas visit them?”
A: “Yes (good question!), it’s December everywhere. And Father Christmas zooms all over, filling up the stockings of little boys and girls everywhere all in time for Christmas morning!”
(Oh dear, I’m fighting off a mental image of Jeremy Clarkson as the big FC whizzing through global time barriers in a souped-up speed-machine sleigh.)

Q: “Mummy, if Father Christmas is so fat, how can he get down our chimney?”
A: “He just can sweetheart, it’s all part of his … reverential pause … special magic”.

All sewn up. Easy this subterfuge isn’t it? Or so I thought until our trip to see Santa on one of these themed steam train days. You know the type; you pack all the family into the car and drive for an age in order to transfer into a slower, dirtier and colder form of transport for a laugh. Ho ho hold on, why didn’t we just ask the milkman if we could borrow his float and do a couple of turns round the block for a festive thrill instead of travelling half way across the country?

But that’s missing the point of course. Who could deny the pleasure of seeing a gaggle of glowing little faces, oohing and aahing as the tinsel-decked train chuff chuff chuffs into the station and hearing their gasps of delight as it toot toots to the crowd? Ah, those volunteer steam buffs, they just can’t get enough.

So anyway, having ogled several Santa Special leaflets in the past, it was finally time for us to go see what all the fuss is about. We got into our car and travelled excitedly down to the chosen yard. There to greet us was the usual ragtag gathering of loco fanatics. And what better cast to fulfil the Santa and motley crew of elves roles? All you need is a dewy-eyed fat bloke who enjoys wearing a uniform (of which there’s always a good smattering at these places), a couple of scrawny fellas with red noses (likewise, plenty of cold-looking hangers-on to choose from) and someone to make the tea. Sorted.

Expecting great things then, we showed our tickets and stumbled eagerly … into the wrong place. “Oy, you can’t come in here ‘til you’ve been on the train, this is the grotto. For later.” Said the elf, clearly fresh out of charm school. Oops, sorry kids. It seems that on the 24th Santa’s fine to zip to Oz and back, swinging happily in on a trillion children en route. But catch him early and he can only accommodate you at the RIGHT time and in the RIGHT place. Got it? (“Not to worry boys, he must be getting nervy at this time of the month. After all, he’s only a few days left to prepare for doing an awful lot of special magic. Must be Pre Magic Tension…”)

And so, having been kicked out of the grotto waiting room, we were ejected straight into the shop. A charming place manned by a couple of old buffers who thought they were being Really Useful proffering Thomas merchandise to a trio of feverish little boys whose tongues were practically dragging on the floor. Needless to say I disagreed, finding their showcasing of the said Sodoring expensive toys Not Very Useful At All thank you very much.

And so to the refreshments car pretty sharpish, a venue that proved a startlingly authentic recreation of the British Rail experience with its draughty, ill-lit seats and lukewarm tea. But let’s not be bah humbug, things were actually starting to look up. The volunteers had strung up jolly garlands of festive tinsel, the steward was cheerfully handing out his peaked cap for the little ones to try on and a bloke with a hammer was knocking some last minute-fairy lights into the wall (clearly he wasn’t too hot on the conservation side of the things).

And then the real action began: there were a couple of flakes of snow, a reverential hush ensued and the station filled with smoke – our engine had arrived. In a jiffy we were all aboard and … hurrah … not at all bored! The frosty countryside sped past beautifully, the boys helped in a magic show and Daddy and I magiced away a glass of mulled wine each. This daytrip was quickly rising in my e-steam.

Then once back at the station we headed straight over to Grotto Central (we knew where to go!) and were first in the queue to see the main man. And though S squealed in terror, the bigger two did their bit with the equanimity of a couple of real regulars. (Well I guess they felt they were, having only just said their farewells to Santa at the school fete.

“Hello Santa” starts J confidently. “Can I take a picture of you for show and tell?”. “And how do you fit down our chimney?” (Argh, I’m being put on the spot here; answer it correctly for me Santa!) “Well young man, hello ho ho” says FC clearly enjoying his role almost as much as pulling levers in the signal box, “of course you can take a photo ho ho. And about that chimney, how big is it?”. “Hmm, about this big” replies J thoughtfully, indicating the size of a small matchbox. “Oh ho ho, well I think then I’ll be leaving your presents outside the back door, is that OK young fella?”

In silent nodding awe, J takes the proffered present, poses for the picture and scarpers. I shuffle out behind him feeling like a naughty school girl. I can’t believe that steam-junkie Santa’s blown the whistle on my fabrications! Hesitantly I wait for the barrage of question to commence: “What about that special magic then mum?”, “How come he never left them by the back door before?”, “Where should we leave our mince pie and carrot then?” etc etc.

But no … phew … it turns out J’s so wrapped up in the football sticker book Santa gave him he seems unconcerned about the slight discrepancy between stories. Point proven, I sigh to myself in relief. Tell them anything you like right now and it falls on deaf ears (rather luckily on this occasion) …

I refuse to believe that no-one’s listening to me though. You ARE really out there Santa aren’t you? Rudolph? Blue Cow? Aw stuff all them then, what about the throngs of RK readers? Oh you ARE there … well listen, have yourselves and your kids a wonderful Christmas and see you in 2008!

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