I don't think that's a real elf...

So, I've been looking back at one of the most enjoyable holiday periods I've had in a long time - a party at which nobody died, the most brilliant Pogues gig I've ever been to, and lots of sporty and semi-sporty things sprinkled on top of it all. Ooh, and I met Father Christmas.

The real one, I hear you ask? Er, probably not. Not unless Father Christmas speaks with a Devon accent, drinks real ale and lives in a tent at Colyton Tram Station.

This little excursion was all part of the enforced jollity that is the Christmas season. We left Seaton Tram Station in a near-blizzard of sleet and trundled across some wasteland on a cold, antique tram that had seen better days, driven by a peculiarly miserable reindeer. I say reindeer, actually it was a bloke in a Bo Selecta bear costume to which he'd added some antlers. When we finally arrived we were welcomed by a buxom, over-tanned elf with a perm who asked us if we were looking forward to meeting Father Christmas. The Elf, semi-nude and covered in goosebumps in what were sub-zero temperatures, was clearly there to distract the crowd while they waited patiently for their two minutes in a tent with the grumpiest and least-convincing Father Christmas this side of Coronation Street (remember Percy Sugden's efforts?) and I have a feeling she had loftier ambitions than this - maybe one day a panto in Plymouth. As she babbled on in a west-country accent, asking us all what we were going to leave out for Father Christmas when he came to our house (apparently he likes sherry, but I think this one was more of a special brew man) my niece lent over to me and conspiratorily whispered "Aunty Polly, I don't think that's a real elf. I think that's a lady dressed as an elf."

Our two minutes with Father Christmas were fairly underwhelming. He came across as rather cantakerous and looked irritated when he asked me nephew his name and he proceeded to tell him his name, his brother and sister's names and his mummy and daddy's names (which are Mummy and Daddy respectively). Santa looked at me with what I feel was contempt, as if to say "if they're Mummy and Daddy who the **** are you?" and possibly presuming me to be the nanny. "What do you want for Christmas?" He asked the kids, and without waiting for the full answer he shoved some ill-wrapped parcels into their hands and said "Happy Christmas". I wished him Happy Christmas and said thank you. He ignored me. He adjusted his fake beared and reached for his beer as we sidled out. In the cafe we were plied with mulled wine and forced to watch an entertainer who was a bizarre sort of combination between Larry Grayson and Bernard Manning. Whateve he was he was out of date. He had a live dove which flapped its wings on command, and at one point he came over to me and said "Do you want a stroke, love?" followed by "Let me put my dove away, then". Erm... He made unidentifiable balloon models for the children, had a hat that turned round and round at the press of a button, and relied on Allo Allo-style innuendo to amuse the adults.

We spent the afternoon feeding 2p pieces into the machines at an amusement arcade in Seaton, and with dogged determination, despite the machine persistently delivering piles of coins back to us, we'd eventually lost them all.