Meeting Father Christmas

We went to visit Father Christmas today, Santa Claus to us Americans.

Last year, our visit went all pear-shaped.  We planned a lovely family day at Harrod's to meet Santa Claus.  It ended with Margot crying inconsolably, terrified of Santa Claus.  Filled with 9-months-pregnant hormones, I started crying too.  Andy tried to manage the situation and rush us into the tube and get us home.  My ankle was caught in the train door, swelling up black and blue.  I  sobbed and snorted loudly throughout the trip, causing great discomfort to all the Brits sitting near us.   It was a disaster.

This year, I was almost relieved when I went online and found that the Santa Grottos at Harrod's and Selfridges were all booked (by late October, I heard).   Still, Margot was determined her three-years-old self would not be scared of Santa. We needed to see the old guy.

We found out that Santa was coming to St Pancras station, recently refurbished to house the EuroStar trains.  (It's even faster to get to Paris now, people.  The station is really close to us and you can be sitting in Paris in just over two hours.)  The appeal to Mom & Dad was the world's longest champagne bar.  So, off we went.  It was great.  We were in and out of there in no time.  Margot had a good chat with Santa.  She asked for a new bike and on behalf of Owen, a new dummy (pacifier).   No incidents.  

Unfortunately, the champagne bar was mobbed.  We'll have to go back for that.