The Thing Is with Steve Canavan

Prior to becoming a father there were several things I had never heard of: dilation, meconium, mucus plug (don’t Google Image this - I once did and couldn’t go near broccoli and stilton soup for three months afterwards), placenta, Braxton-Hicks (I’d previously thought this a Solicitors firm based near Slough), incompetent cervix, colostrum, pelvic floor (I’m still not exactly sure what this is but Mrs Canavan hasn’t been able to go trampolining since).

Something else I’d never heard of - and perhaps most unpleasant of all - was the Santa Express.

But, boy, I have now, because in the days before Christmas I found myself on it.

It involves, for those not familiar, around 75,000 screaming, excited children, accompanied by several incredibly depressed and forlorn looking adults, boarding a steam train which rides to a nearby station and then back again.

The highlight of the journey - though I use the word ‘highlight’ in the loosest possible sense - is an appearance from Father Christmas, who in our case was some bloke wearing a hat and a fake beard and with a bad outbreak of eczema around his nose (in between dishing out presents, he kept pausing to dab his face with hydrocortisone cream).

As well as Santa, there were a whole assortment of characters on the train including magicians and elves, and a brass band and carol singing (during which the youngsters on board were encouraged to smack their hands on the tables as loudly as possible).

The journey lasted about an hour, though it felt much, much longer.

I suppose my criticism is grossly unfair given that I’m looking at the experience through the eyes of a 41-year-old when it is clearly designed for small children.

But the problem with these things is that the adults have to go too, for someone needs to look after the kids. I therefore think they should provide something to keep us grown-ups happy too - perhaps a carriage containing a TV showing the best bits of the 2012-13 Premier League season, or a talk on grouting, or at the very least some lap-dancers.

Alas there was none of this, meaning we had to sit with our offspring, who were so excited they might combust at any moment throughout.

As a gift to the adults - presumably a reward for having to sit through the whole thing - we were given a mince pie and a small bottle of sherry. I hadn’t had sherry since raiding the drinks cabinet at my grandmother’s sheltered accommodation as a teenager and I remember detesting the sweet liquid. But here I downed the entire bottle in one, in the hope it would numb the pain. It didn’t.

I was on the train with my wife and daughter (Mary, now 10-months-old, and who spent the entire ride ignoring everyone who walked by and instead playing with the plastic top from a water bottle), my sister and her child, and my mother - and it was, predictably, the latter who managed to spoil the climax of the entire day.

Before Santa comes into the carriage, two people dressed as elves (one an over enthusiastic young woman, presumably a recent graduate from a university drama course whose career wasn’t quite going in the direction she’d hoped; the other a man in his 40s almost certainly on anti-depressants) do a little comedy sketch where they pretend Santa can’t make it because he’s stuck at the North Pole.

All the children gathered went ‘awww’ and looked upset.

My mother, concerned her three-year-old grandson was about to cry - and spotting Father Christmas hovering outside the carriage waiting for his cue to enter - announced in a big loud voice, ‘don’t worry, he’s outside the door’. All the children turned to look at Santa, while the elves - who had been carefully building up to the crescendo of a moment when they announced Father Christmas was here after all - glared furiously at my mother.

There was a pause during which time the elves wondered whether they should carry on with the pretence that Santa wasn’t there (tricky as by now every child on board was chanting ‘Santa, Santa!’ and pointing towards him), before deciding that given my mother’s actions that would be futile and instead they just waved him in.

Father Christmas burst through the door with a ho-ho-ho and wandered down the aisle handing out gifts to youngsters (two stunt cars - I say stunt cars, you revved the wheels, put the car on its side, and it spun round for a short while before conking out).

‘Look Mary,’ I shouted at my child, in a vain attempt to pique her interest and, more importantly, to get our money’s worth, ‘it’s Father Christmas!’

She briefly examined the man stood next to us in his red coat and white beard, pointed at the dry skin around his nose, then carried on trying to eat her water bottle top while my mother shrieked at me about the dangers of choking.

I won’t lie - I was rather happy when the whole thing was done. But that said, the kids loved it and I daresay we’ll be back again next year, when, with a bit of luck, Santa’s eczema might have cleared.

Costly present buys me 
nothing

I spent £100 on Christmas presents for Mrs Canavan this year.

This was double the agreed £50 limit but I was feeling generous and I thought it would come in handy for the next time I wanted to go to the pub with the lads (‘darling, I know it’s my turn to stay in with the baby but remember all the money I spent on you for Christmas?’)

Yet despite my remarkable generosity, three days after Christmas, as we were quietly sat in the lounge watching the cat having a scrap with yet another bauble on the tree, Mrs Canavan suddenly announced in a dramatic tone, “I’ve just realised - you didn’t get me that sweatshirt I asked for”.

I enquired what sweatshirt she was referring to.

“You know full well which sweatshirt,” she said, genuine annoyance in her voice.

“The one I mentioned in late August, on that website”.

I pointed out that August was quite a while ago, that I had spent much more on her than I should have, and 72 hours previously she’d seemed rather happy with the gifts I had got her.

“But you didn’t get what I asked for,” she replied, angrily.

I briefly thought about lightly clubbing her around the head with a rolling pin before deciding it wouldn’t be the right way to kick off the new year. ‘I’m sorry darling, I’ll try and do better next Christmas,’ I said.

“Good,” came the reply.

Not for the first time I realised I have absolutely no idea how a woman’s mind works.