Will the Real Santa Please Stand Up

When you're at your next cocktail party and the conversation flags I'll tell you exactly what to work into the conversation. "I say, Montmorency, do you know how fast facial hair grows." (Facial hair, please, lets keep it clean.) Then you can hold your finger and thumb around half an inch apart (metric equivalent I've no idea) and say "This much in three months." As Michael Caine would say, "Not a lot of people know that."

Now how do I know such things. I know many useless things but nothing remotely useful. For instance, how many bones are there in a giraffes neck. Seven, the same as humans. Cows get up on their front legs first; horses their back legs. Or is it the other way round! Knowledge gleaned from years of laborious book studying. Fine, but not as pleasing as knowledge gained from first hand, personal experience, hard toil suffered over months in the pursuit of excellence. (I've got the feeling my school motto talked of 'the pursuit of excellence', but I digress.)

Two years ago I dressed up as Father Christmas, right down to artificial full-length beard. Elaborate preparations included changing in my motorhome round the corner from my grandchildren and my daughter scattering ‘Reindeer Dust’ on her house front. I walked up the street complete with sack. “Who’s this coming up the road?” Angelina aged five is asked by mother.
“Father Christmas” she replies on cue, eyes wide with amazement. “Who is it?” is enquired of brother Tommy, not yet three. “Santa Granddad” is the instant dismissive reply. Out of the mouth of babes and all that! (In the house later when asked where Santa went he again pointed to me, out of uniform, so to speak. "He's there" he again uttered with unchildlike authority.)
This Christmas, as a favour I am to dress up again as Santa, a favour for some small children I know. And yes, the parents do approve, a consideration that cannot be ignored in this PC inclined, often sinister world. Mind you, for some even Santa himself is considered non PC but what the hell. Plus this year there is to be no artificial beard but the real thing, thus the no trimming agenda since September. And though I am normally a hirsuted individual, its a number four clippered cut rather than Santa's more flowing locks. So the trick is to time the 'no beard trim' period long enough to be a reasonably authentic Father Christmas; but not long enough to give the appearance of Rip Van Winkle or be arrested in the town centre and charged with vagrancy.

I must confess I have had some funny looks from small children recently. And I must also confess I have glared at one or two misbehaving reprobates in the supermarket. Plus the rebuke, "Now stop being naughty, I'm Santa's brother and you'll get 'b' all if you don't be good" has had some amazing effects. (Don't worry or underestimate children, they soon bounce back, honest!)

So the Day of Judgement has arrived. It is twelve weeks since the last trim. Will I convince today's doubting, often streetwise at four infants. Or will I be exposed as just another fraud in a cynical, commercial world. What do you think.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE. MAY ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE.