santa and mrs. claus set up shop along the south bank, so we brave the tourist traffic for the christmas market and hope that it's worth the 15 pounds per child to decorate cookies with mrs. claus. joe causes us a further bit of concern about the wisdom of booking this experience. as an elf ushers joe, tally, grammy and i into a charming little tent with sweetie-lined shelves and enamelware on the cardboard aga, joe gives him the squint-eye: "you have pointy ears like an elf, but you're too tall." when we see that mrs. claus is quite youthful, grammy sends me a this-is-a-bust look. i wonder if we should abort before xmas is ruined for three-year-old tally.
after mrs. claus sorts out the cookies and sweeties for them to begin their work, joe fires off a barrage of questions:
"do you really have telephones at the north pole?"
(he's seen pictures and commented to me numerous times about the lack of phone lines running across the tundra)
"why don't you ride in the sleigh with santa?"
"why does santa put presents under a tree?"
mrs. claus' youth belies a steely and unflappable demeanor. she deflects quickly -- wax-on, wax-off -- without missing a beat:
"we do have telephones. some children just can't post their letters in time and we need another way for them to contact us."
"i can't ride in the sleigh, there's simply not enough room."
to which joe replies, "but elves fit. what about on top of the bags?"
"but who would fix them their breakfast?"
"what do you make for breakfast?"
"pancakes and bacon."
"santa puts presents under the tree because it is a special place. can you imagine how santa would know where they'd go if there wasn't a tree?"
joe halts his line of questioning then and puts his energy into decorating his cookie. i smile at grammy and mock-wipe my brow. mrs. claus saves christmas, at least this year.
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