Page 107 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
Emma looks at Lucy suspiciously. The marshmallows were more than enough in her eyes.
‘I may have booked us into the grotto over the way in ten minutes.’
‘But Luce – shopping. I have to get back to the girls,’ Grace says.
‘Come on, for the little ones? Joe’s never met Santa. He won’t know who he is, how will he know to add him to his list?’ Lucy replies, dramatically.
Violet looks horrified at the thought. ‘Please, Aunty Gracie?’
Grace looks as thrilled as I do but nods reluctantly.
Lucy points over to the shopping centre and we start weaving our way around people armed with bags like it’s a competition to see who can fit as many as they can in one hand, they march and queue, and I see a grown man who looks like he’s sobbing outside a GAP. Inside the shopping centre, it’s all Christmas themed and every conceivable spare space is lined with a bauble or fairy light. It’d be magical were it not for the kid in front of me on the floor throwing some sort of tantrum. A father scoops him up and fireman lifts him out of there.I’m going to ring Santa when I get home and tell him what a little twat you’ve been.Grace and I look at each other in horror.
‘MISS C!’ I swing my head around. A group of youths approach Emma, Grace and me.
I have no idea what passes for fashion these days but they’re in a selection of trackpants, leggings and puffa coats accessorised with chains, AirPods and bum bags worn on their shoulders. I smile broadly. ‘Harvey, Imogen…’ There’s a whole gaggle of them so I don’t introduce them, but Emma and Grace look terrified. Imogen and Harvey still look to be an item with the way her hand seems to be wrapped around his waist and I’m glad they’ve upgraded their dates to the local shopping centre – it’s a step up from the school toilets. I really hope these two are behaving themselves.
‘Oh my days, that baby is still like the cutest. Lads, it’s the Special K baby, innit? This is the baby. We saw him in that video too. That’s so mental,’ Imogen announces to the crowd.
Some of the children in the group who haven’t met Joe before are falling about in shock, snapping their fingers in response to the information. As if on cue, the little man’s eyes spring open. Some of the kids clap.
‘These are my sisters, Emma and Grace – and these are some of my kids from school. Christmas shopping, are we? I like milk chocolate, no candles or crappy signs saying, “World’s Best Teacher”, please.’
They all laugh. It comes as a surprise to my sisters, who’ve not seen me in a classroom before. I guess to the outside world, a group of fourteen-year-olds has become something to fear, some loud brazen, attention-seeking group of know-it-alls out to cause trouble. I can vouch for this lot though. Fifteen years ago this was me too, without all the chains and with an iPod Mini and a wine-coloured velour tracksuit.
‘I’ve got you after Christmas, Miss. I think some of us are in your class,’ Harvey mentions, grinning. I nod at him. ‘Can we take a selfie, Miss? Can we Snapchat you?’
‘Only if you use good filters,’ I joke.
Grace stands there laughing while they all gather around me, girls pouting and boys trying their best to look double hard. Joe is completely unbothered as the crowd descends upon us.
‘YEAH, MISS C!’ one of them shouts.
Emma holds the top of her handbag close.
‘Be good, kids. Have an excellent Christmas.’
They all laugh and move on, chanting my name as they walk through the shopping centre. Grace and Beth give me strange looks.
‘Miss C?’ Grace mimics in their strong London tones. ‘That was not the sort of teaching I thought you were doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at you, Miss C with all the cool lingo, getting the teenagers to listen,’ Emma says. ‘Just, you know, guiding the next generation to greatness. And you were worried about being a mum.’
I digest that for a moment. The great thing about teaching is that I get to hand them back to the parents. Hell, if all I had to do was crack jokes and take selfies, the last months would have been a cinch.
We head for the super sparkly floor to the top of the centre where Lucy and the girls wait for us by some animatronic bears baking cookies to high-pitched chipmunk voices singing Christmas music. Grace looks at me in alarm while Emma laughs, almost cackling.
‘Welcome to my world, girls,’ Emma says, drily. ‘It’s not Christmas anymore. It’s working how to get your kids to believe in Santa, and Christmas Eve rituals whereby I have to skip through my garden and sprinkle glittered oats on my lawn for the reindeer.’
She almost looks pleased that she has more people to now share in this trauma. Before you thought Christmas was a cute couples’ activity with alcohol andLove Actually. Now it’s this fresh hell.
‘Lucy,’ Emma whispers, ‘their dad is taking them to Harrods in a couple of days. This might be really embarrassing.’
‘No, it won’t,’ she says, shimmering with as much excitement as the little people. ‘You just tell them that Santa has lots of representatives. It’s what Mum told me for years and I believed her.’ We all did, and were mercilessly teased about it at secondary school.
‘Hello, welcome! I am Elfie the Elf.’
