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There are certain moments in life when your brain takes a few seconds to process what your eyes are telling it.

This was one of them.

It was late August in Ashford. The sun was shining, it was a perfectly pleasant 24°C outside, and I had wandered into The Range for the fairly unremarkable purpose of buying a couple of Kilner jars.

That was it.

Two jars.

I wasn’t Christmas shopping. I wasn’t thinking about Christmas. I wasn’t even thinking about autumn.

It was August.

I walked into the store, wandered along minding my own business and then stopped.

Dead.

My jaw dropped to the floor.

And, perhaps not very elegantly, I said:

“WTF?”

Santa had landed.

And he was singing.

Not a discreet little Father Christmas sitting quietly on a shelf, you understand.

Oh no.

This was a full-sized Santa. Red velvet suit. White beard. Boots. Naughty and Nice list. The lot.

And he was cheerfully singing Christmas songs.

In August.

Outside, people were wandering around in T-shirts.

Inside, Father Christmas was already well into the festive programme.

Perhaps he’d arrived early to avoid the M20.

Whatever the reason, there was no mistaking it.

Christmas had come to Ashford.

 

And it wasn’t just Santa

Initially, I thought perhaps he was an isolated incident.

Maybe someone had got the dates wrong.

Perhaps he’d escaped from the warehouse.

Then I looked around the corner.

Oh dear God.

There were aisles of it.

Baubles.

Nutcrackers.

Christmas trees.

Bells.

Gnomes.

Reindeer.

Snowmen.

Candy canes.

Enough red, green and gold to suggest that Lapland had suffered some sort of catastrophic warehouse failure and diverted the entire consignment to Kent.

This wasn’t “Christmas stock is beginning to arrive.”

This wasn’t one nervous shelf of Christmas cards being quietly slipped out to see if anybody noticed.

This was full-fat, bells-out Christmas.

And we hadn’t even got to September.

 

Meanwhile, Halloween was waiting

This was possibly my favourite bit.

Because lurking immediately behind Santa and his enormous festive invasion was Halloween.

Spiders.

Pumpkins.

Black cushions covered in webs.

Ghostly things.

All the usual paraphernalia required to celebrate an event which, according to my admittedly old-fashioned understanding of the calendar, actually happens before Christmas.

Halloween appeared to have been given about twelve feet of retail space before being completely overrun by Santa’s advancing forces.

The whole thing looked less like seasonal retailing and more like two competing festivals fighting for territorial control of The Range.

Halloween: “Excuse me, we’re next.”

Christmas: “Not anymore, mate.”

At this rate, Easter hasn’t got a chance.

 

What happened to autumn?

There used to be an order to these things.

Summer happened.

Then September arrived.

Leaves changed colour.

October brought pumpkins and Halloween.

November was that slightly miserable month when everybody complained about it getting dark at four o’clock.

And then — then — we started thinking about Christmas.

It worked perfectly well.

Nobody became confused.

Santa knew when to turn up.

Apparently those days are gone.

We no longer have seasons.

We have retail campaigns.

Summer Sale.

Back to School.

Halloween.

Christmas.

Valentine’s Day.

Easter.

Summer Sale again.

Repeat until death.

Nature itself has become largely incidental.

 

Outside, meanwhile, summer was carrying on completely unaware that it had apparently been cancelled.

There were barbecues in gardens.

People were mowing lawns.

Tomatoes were still growing.

Wasps were still attempting to ruin lunch.

Somebody, somewhere in Kent, was probably filling a paddling pool.

And here I was, standing in The Range looking at artificial snowflakes.

Snow.

It was 24°C outside.

I half expected an announcement over the tannoy:

“Could customers please be advised that due to the unusually warm weather, Rudolph is currently in the air-conditioned section next to the fans.”

And somewhere behind me…

Santa was still singing.

This time it was Here Comes Santa Claus.

Which felt less like a Christmas song and more like a threat.

Yes, Santa. We know. You’re here.

We can see you.

It’s August.

 

Then I found the bells

Not one bell.

Not two.

An entire cascading rope of Christmas bells.

Because apparently nothing says “pleasant August afternoon” quite like enough sleigh bells to equip a small Scandinavian reindeer regiment.

Nearby, Christmas gnomes with enormous white beards stared back at me.

Nutcrackers stood to attention.

There were wreaths.

Decorations.

Festive ornaments.

Christmas trees.

Enough baubles to decorate most of Ashford.

And every so often, from somewhere behind me, came the unmistakable sound of Santa continuing his August residency.

At this point I wasn’t entirely sure whether I’d walked into The Range or accidentally passed through some sort of seasonal wormhole.

I checked my phone.

Still August.

 

I know why they do it

Of course, I understand the commercial reasoning.

The longer Christmas merchandise is on display, the longer retailers have to sell it.

And there are undoubtedly people who absolutely love this.

Somebody will be reading this thinking:

“Excellent. I’ve already bought seventeen presents.”

Good for you.

There are probably people with Christmas spreadsheets.

Possibly colour-coded.

They know who’s coming for Christmas lunch, what everyone is eating, where everyone is sitting and which batteries are required for the children’s toys.

I admire these people enormously.

I am not one of them.

I’m still mentally in barbecue season.

I’m the bloke who walked into The Range for two jars and unexpectedly found himself standing in Santa’s grotto.

 

Fa la la la la…

Eventually, I found what I’d actually come in for.

Kilner jars acquired, I made my way back towards the front of the store.

And there he was again.

Santa.

For a moment, he was quiet.

Peaceful.

Perhaps his shift had finished.

Perhaps the batteries had finally surrendered.

I walked towards him.

I drew level.

And suddenly he burst back into life.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly… fa la la la la, la la la la…”

I stopped.

Again.

Of course you did, Santa.

Why wouldn’t you?

It’s late August.

It’s 24°C outside.

Halloween is still waiting for its turn.

I’m standing here carrying two Kilner jars.

And Father Christmas is singing Deck the Halls at me.

Fa la la la la.

At that point I decided it was probably best to leave before he started on Jingle Bells.

The doors opened.

Sunshine.

Warm air.

Summer.

For a brief moment I wondered whether I’d imagined the whole thing.

I looked back.

No.

Santa was still there.

Nearly four months early.

Perhaps he knows something we don’t.

Anyway, I learnt an important lesson today.

Never assume you’re just popping into The Range for a couple of jars.

You might accidentally lose an entire season.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Apparently.

Fa la la la la. 🎅