The evening starts at the party room of a pizza joint just off Oxford Street. The world is stewing outside. “Thank God for air-conditioning,” I think as I put on the Santa suit. I don’t need the beard, as mine is full and gray.

Santa gets everyone to sit on his knee, kisses them and makes inappropriate small talk. He brags about going clubbing and forgets presents. He has a glass of tequila in one hand.

One of the staff members has a young son along. He’s 6 or 7. Looks me up and down. Decides it’s O.K. and sits on my knee. I ask what he wants for Christmas. He tells me his list.

With me still in my Santa suit, the party heads to a pub across the road. We’re drinking seriously now. Shots of tequila, cocktails with sexual names.

The air is charged with summer heat.

A friend is tapping her fingers on the sweaty glass of a Long Island iced tea. She looks at me, her nose is red, and I resist making a joke about Rudolph. She leans in close, breath hot with the scent of peppermint.

“Merry Christmas, Santa,” she shouts.

Hepburn

Decking a Whole Town’s Halls

By Kevin Childs