It was two year’s on the trot that I played Santa in our northern England street. The second year was just as entertaining as the first. I donned my hired outfit, got into character, hoisted the gift laden sack onto my back and walked down our end of the street ringing my hand held bell – don’t know why I keep describing myself as shy – and knocked on the doors. Everything was going well in each house until I entered the last. My daughter’s pal lived here with her infant sister and parents. After I’d finished my opening spiel the infant looked up at me curiously, the tip of her forefinger resting on her bottom lip. ‘I know who you are,’ she finally began with a giggle, ‘You’re Sharon’s dad,’ she added. ‘Uh?’ I replied, caught off guard. ‘I can tell by the way you talk,’ she continued. Momentarily taken aback by her astute observation I feigned a smile long enough for me to think of a feasible response: ‘Sharon?’ I began, ‘Do I sound like her?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I, er, I’ve, er, wherever I go in the world I speak the language of the people and I’ve, er, I’ve just come from Scotland, hen, so, er, that’s why I sound like, er, Sharon. I’ve, er, I haven’t had time to, er, adjust to, er, speaking like you yet. Would you like a…would you like a present?’ I then gently ruffled her hair, gave her sister a present, said a few parting words and left. I wasn’t sure if the wee girl swallowed my explanation but I certainly admired her observation.