I have told my seven-year-old son Jack that Santa Claus has set up an enclave of elves in China to make his toys.
I had to.

He wanted to know why some toys he got from Santa last year had "Made in China" stamped on the bottom and not "Made at the North Pole. "

"Ah, that's market forces at work for you," I said. "Santa can probably get more toys made for less money, or whatever he pays elves, in China."

We are all affected by globilisation, aren't we? Well, why should Santa be any different?

I know almost for a fact the North Pole has very strict laws about child labour and union membership. Santa would get more bangles for his buck in China. Not to mention computer games, action toys and dollies.

I would not say that Jack has stopped believing in Santa Claus. Hey, he has my genes. I am 45 and I still believe. But, like me, Jack is obviously starting to wonder. Little things worry him. Like, how come sometimes Santa appears at shopping centres wearing glasses and sometimes he doesn't? And how come sometimes he is fatter or thinner or shorter or taller or older or younger than at other times? I am still waiting for Jack to twig that, with ducted gas heating, we have not even got a chimney for Santa to come down. And how come he seems to like the same type of beer and plate of chocolate biscuits daddy likes?

Life was lot easier for my parents when I was seven and started to doubt the existence of Santa. We did have a chimney. And it would not have worried me to see "Made in China" or the like stamped on the bottom of toys because I had much less of a grip on geography than Jack. He knows where China is on the map and he knows where the North Pole is and he knows they are quite different places.

But I do remember the questioning that went on in the schoolyard.

There is always a more worldly boy, probably with older siblings, eager to explode the myth.

"Don't be silly. Only babies believe in Santa Claus," he will say, and other children will nod their heads in agreement.

Before you know it, you enter into a schoolyard agreement not to tell the adults that you know what they know lest you get no presents that year
(because Santa only comes to people, like me, who still believe.)

As I said, Jack has my genes.

Aside from the Santa Claus gene, I have learnt lately he also has my bed-making gene.

My wife Katherine and I have recently insisted that Jack make his bed each day.

The early efforts were not so good. We had to help him or make it again after him.

Lately though, I think his bed-making skills have really improved. So much so that I think his bed-making is now on a par with my own bed-making.

Of course, it is still a long way behind Katherine's bed-making. She prefers the linen and blankets to be straightened and tucked in rather than merely thrown back into a position that approximates one's sleeping position.

"Don't worry," I consoled Jack the other day when he looked a bit discouraged after Katherine remade his bed again. "It took me years and years to realise that my bed-making standards are a long way behind mummy's bed-making standards. I think it's a Venus and Mars thing."

Jack knows about Venus and Mars. Well, the planets anyway. A couple of years ago, when he believed wholeheartedly in Santa, he launched himself on a career path to be an artist in space.

Why, I bet he now fancies himself as Santa's foreman in the craft shop on Mars. To hell with globilisation, Santa has other workshops to conquer.

© December 16, 2003, John Martin. All Rights Reserved