He lifted them awkwardly out of the footrest and attempted to extend them onto the other side of the car. That didn’t work either. The first hundred or so children hadn’t seemed heavy, but after the second hundred, every little butt which landed on his bruised thighs got heavier and heavier. If he could just stretch out the ache. He’d thought about walking home, it was almost criminal to be driven such a short distance, but when he’d finally managed to get the Santa beard off his face, he couldn’t bear the thought of the cold evening air on his newly raw skin. Never again would he mock an actor who played Santa for a living. It was damn hard work. Scanning through the messages on his phone he saw he had three missed calls from Malcolm. This was either really good, or really bad. Dialing the man’s number he looked out at the snowy streets. Despite his tired body, it had been a good day. A great day. Watching the slow smiles build as each child listed off the reasons why they’d been good made him feel pleased to be alive.
