Five minutes. I am to meet Santa Claus in his own house at the North Pole, but Mrs Claus tells me that I am allowed only five minutes. Santa and Mrs Claus are like good cop, bad cop. She's the bad cop. "Five minutes," she says again firmly, scuttling from the room. I sit on an oversized armchair staring into a log fire and wait for the Big Man to join me. I'm nervous, writes Michael Kelly.
What will he be like? What will I ask? Should I have changed the batteries in the Dictaphone? The door opens and in he walks. I've never realised how accurate the description "jolly" is until now. It sums him up perfectly. There is snow on his boots and he is ruddy-cheeked, so he has clearly been outside. He unlaces his enormous brown boots and pulls them off with considerable difficulty to reveal bright red woollen socks. There's a hole at the end of one and his big toe is sticking out. He sits back in an armchair opposite me, stretches out and puts his feet practically in the grate of the fire to warm them up. He wriggles his toes.
My first preconception about Santa Claus is shattered within two minutes. I thought he was old-fashioned, but in fact he's thoroughly up to date. He tells me, for example, that he has abandoned his traditional fur-trimmed garb, having received a compelling protest letter from PETA and he now wears a suit of organic red cotton. His half-moon granny glasses are gone, thanks to the marvels of laser eye surgery. He knows all about the latest trends, gadgets and gizmos, though he's not crazy about some of them - don't get him started on violent video games. Modernity has even arrived at the elves' workshop - to keep up with soaring demand, all manner of efficiencies have been introduced, including the recent implementation of a Just In Time inventory system.
Santa knows his way around email and the internet and is a fan of Google Earth (though it's hard to imagine that Google Earth can teach him anything about navigating the globe). He's big on green issues and, despite his all-round jolliness, he worries about global warming, especially the impact that it is having on his beloved North Pole. He tells me with considerable pride that his Yuletide globetrotting leaves no carbon footprint thanks to that most eco-friendly mode of transport, reindeer power. And in a boon to the slow food movement, he tells me that the reindeers apparently prefer organic carrots ("Rudolph says they taste like carrots used to," he muses).
Alarmingly, it would appear that Santa is not immune from health concerns either, though he is, after all, exceedingly old. He has long since given up pipe-smoking ("Mrs Claus hated the smell of stale tobacco," he says ruefully) and while his frame is indeed ample, he's not the corpulent Santa of old - there's no belly shaking like a bowl of jelly. Like most men of advancing years he worries about cholesterol.
"I have to be careful about all that food that the boys and girls leave out for me," he says with a hearty chuckle. "I love mince pies and the odd glass of Guinness but - well, you saw what it did to my figure and Mrs Claus was worried about my ticker. I take a little bit in each house and I give some to the reindeers. Come January I'll be back on the rowing-machine in the basement and doing my yoga."
Santa doing yoga? Where's the magic gone?, you might well ask. Has Santa become bogged down in worldly concerns? Has he become, dare we say it, boring? Thankfully, no. Scratch the surface of modernity and the magic is still there in spades. It pops up with a vengeance when I ask him the questions that you, dear reader, would no doubt have expected your correspondent to ask. How does he get around the world, delivering gifts to millions of children, all in one night? How does he know if the children are naughty or nice? Does he park the sleigh on the roof? What if there's no roof? How does he fit down the chimney? How does he get into a house where there is no chimney? Does he really use a magic key? Isn't that just breaking and entering?
He laughs - a massive, infectious bellow which eventually trails off into a smile and a sympathetic look. "Ah, you adults make me laugh. Everything is questions, questions. You think children are the naïve ones? I'll tell you how I can do all these things," he says, leaning forward and giving me a conspiratorial wink. Here it comes - the big scoop.
"The magic of Christmas," he says with a chuckle. "It's no more simple or more complex than that." He notices that I look disappointed. "You know when you hear a Christmas carol and get a warm tingle inside?" he asks, warming to the theme. I nod.
"That's the magic of Christmas. You adults feel the magic of Christmas less and less as you get older. You're too wrapped up in stresses and strains, Christmas party season and adult stuff. But imagine a person who feels the magic of Christmas all the time. Who thinks the magic of Christmas all the time. That is the magic of Christmas. All the time. Imagine what that person could accomplish? That's me. That's how I do all those things. Do you understand now?"
"Well yes, but. . ." I stammer, trying to get in a follow-up question as Mrs Claus re-enters the room. "I'm afraid we must call it a night, my dear," she says. "He has a busy few days ahead of him and it's getting late." We say our goodbyes and, as I walk out beneath the clear, Arctic sky, I hear his voice behind me. "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"