BEING Santa has become part of my Christmas Eve routine. I dress up in my threadbare costume and visit friends with children young enough still to be believers.

Perhaps because I’m just a big kid at heart, I love it. There is something magical about donning a red cloak, trousers and hat; a white wig and beard; and a pair of wellies in order to see little faces light up with joy.

This year, I had three destinations on my carefully-timed schedule: Newton Aycliffe, Croft-on-Tees, and then Darlington.

It got off to a bad start when the car’s sat nav didn’t recognise the address in Newton Aycliffe where two little boys called Adam and Daniel live. Compared to reliable old Rudolf, modern technology isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Following a couple of telephone calls, I managed to make it to the house only five minutes late, rang my special bell outside the window, and knocked on the door.

Adam – only three but as sharp as a pine needle – answered the door with a look of wonderment on his little face. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”

I boomed and, without hesitation, he thrust a bottle of red wine into my hand. Now that’s what Santa likes to see – well-trained children.

We went into the lounge and I sat on the settee with Adam for a little chat. I’d done my homework and knew he’d asked for a Batman cave and a Doggy Doo.

“Have you been a good boy?”

Yes he had.

“Have mummy and daddy been good?”

Yes they had.

“Is it true you’d like a Batman’s cave and a Doggy Doo?”

Yes it was. I had no idea what a Doggy Doo was but I told him I was sure I’d remembered to pack one on my sleigh. He smiled.

“Do you by any chance have a spare carrot because Rudolf’s feeling hungry?”

He nodded, glanced at mummy, and she went off to find one. While she was in the kitchen, I could see Adam was interested in my special bell.

“Would you like a ring of Santa’s special bell?” I asked, softly.

Yes, he really, really would.

I handed it over and he rang it so energetically that 18-month-old baby brother Daniel, who was on his dad’s knee, started making shouty noises and reaching over.

“Ho, ho, ho – would Daniel like a go of Santa’s magic bell?” I asked.

Daniel made some more shouty noises, reached out a bit more, and I gave him the special bell.

“DONG!” With a sound louder than Big Ben, he promptly clonked himself in the head with it and burst out crying.

“I think maybe Santa should have done a risk assessment on that one,”

said daddy, handing a howling Daniel over to mummy.

I made my excuses and set off on the rest of my Christmas journey.

Croft-on-Tees and Darlington were relatively uneventful, but I remained racked with guilt. I phoned on Christmas Day to see if Daniel was okay and was told he had a small cut over one eye.

I’m not sure he likes Santa anymore.

In fact, he could be psychologically scarred for many Christmases to come.

I think I might retire.

The things they say “THE house is a bit messy because daddy never tidies up” – reported a lovely little girl called Jenna when Santa got to Croft-on-Tees.

ON Christmas Day, we had a family game of Articulate, which involves describing words to your partner.

The word on the card was “Armageddon”

so son Jack gave the clue: “The end of the world.”

“Australia!” came the answer from his sister, Hannah.

The things mums buy THE most predictable thing about Christmas is that my mum will buy me a new shirt – and something odd.

Over the years, the “something odd” category has included an autoescape hammer and a booked called “101 Things To Do With Vinegar”.

This year, she got me a new shirt and a fire-lighter.

“Why do I need a fire-lighter?” I asked.

“It’ll save on matches,” she said.

I’m a bit concerned she thinks I’m a secret arsonist.