We took our friend L to lunch in our local hostelry last weekend. No simple Sunday lunch, this: though, for we’d stumbled into “Santa’s Super Sunday”.

And, dear readers, the man himself was there. I’d have thought that, ten days before Christmas, he’d have been busy ensuring that the elves took a suitably disciplined approach to the present-wrapping process. Oh no! Here he was, in the north-east of England, ho-ho-hoing for all he was worth. (And it was amazing to see how like the publican he looked: quite uncanny).

Haron and L. watched with interest as Santa ordered himself a pint and headed off to his grotto. The barman called over, conspiratorily: “Ladies, you’d be very welcome to sit on Santa’s knee, if you’d like to.”

I feigned surprise as I paraphrased the invitation. “Wow: you girls can go over Santa’s knee if you want to.” The shocked glances from neighbouring tables made me realised that I’d perhaps been speaking a little too loudly. But I’ll never see a sign for a Christmas grotto again without some delightful images flashing through my mind.