Storme has been dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones she's never known. My daughter may have seen 10 December 25ths, but she cannot clearly remember throwing snowballs, or sticking a carrot and some currants into a snowman's face. Christmas isn't Christmas, she mutters, without snow. Why wouldn't I take her to somewhere she could, for once, see the ground smothered in a white blanket and feel the flakes fall softly on her face? So we went to Wembley.
It may not be the North Pole. But even when it drizzles on the half-demolished stadium and the adjacent multi-storey car park outside, a wonderful white Christmas is guaranteed inside at Wembley, where a labyrinth of life-size scenes from Santa's Kingdom have been constructed in the huge exhibition halls. The moment we entered, Storme knew her dream had come true.
There was snow everywhere. It smothered the floor in a soft carpet, fell upon the fake fir trees with their little twinkling fairy lights, and landed upon the hood of Storme's red jacket, until she looked as if she belonged on the front of a Christmas card.
It is unnaturally balmy in this particular Lapland, with a faint smell of hamburgers and hotdogs being fried. And the snow is dry and made of flaked plastic. But in Santa's Kingdom, we must suspend all disbelief. Cynics should stay at home; you are as unwelcome as Scrooge. At Wembley, you have to enter into the spirit not of Christmas present, but of Christmas past.
The mode of transport to this mythical land is, however, modern. We are to be taken on an imitation shuttle ride Flight 501 (no passport required), 30 passengers at a time, guided by one of the 175 elves employed throughout the kingdom. "Mum, are we really going to Lapland?" whispered Storme as we boarded the shuttle, reaching for my hand. It seemed as if, for a brief and wonderful couple of hours, I might get my lovely daughter back, before she discovered lip gloss or that tooth fairies were fake or knew who Eminem was.
"Yep," I answered. Let this dream last, let this dream last, I said to myself.
"Will Santa be there, mum?"
"Oh yes, darling," I said, delighted. "I'm sure Santa will be there, just for you."
We were all given pre-printed postcards: "Dear Santa - I am... years of age. I want to thank you for your presents last year. I have been very good all year. Please Santa, this year could I have..." How refreshingly sweet, how uncharacteristically innocent, I thought with parental approval. Perhaps I was despairing prematurely about how rapidly my 10-year-old seemed to be rushing into the off-hand rudeness and shrugging shoulders of teenagehood.
She began to write her wish list on the postcard. I peered over her shoulder: "Mobile phone and laptop," she had scribbled, and my softened heart began to weep. She was, after all, already tainted by the world beyond. Even when you enter a magical kingdom, you can't leave all your avaricious pre-teen mental baggage behind.
Guided by elves, our group was moved from room to room, each decked out as a different scene inhabited by one of the kingdom's characters, played by actors. First, we met the Snow Queen in her ice cave. She asked us to cup our hands together and throw our wishes into the air, so she could catch them in her spangled cloak. We all did it, even the adults. But Storme had made the mistake of inviting along her friend Iona who, at 13, was not so easy to string along. Where Storme saw wonder, Iona saw manipulation. Where Storme hummed along to the taped "Here it is, Merry Christmas, Everybody's having fun...", Iona was silent. And it was Iona who pointed out that the illusion of being whisked away at the speed of sound to where Santa lives was slightly dented by a notice warning: "No toilets for an hour." Santa's Kingdom is for ages 12 and under, or those adults who wished they still were.
We all, except Iona, oooohed, aaahed, clapped and threw our wishes on demand. "Boys and girls, you did very well," said the Snow Queen. "But not a lot of the mums and dads joined in..." There was oodles of audience participation. It was like a pantomime in which we had to walk from scene to scene. Even the jokes were wonderfully cheesy. The elves, we were informed, were very "elf-ful" (helpful, get it?). "For your own elf and safety, please do not stand on the fence..." chirped another green-faced elf. But this being the 21st century, a children's attraction also has to have an educational angle. So, in the toy factory, the Toymaker admonished, "Elves have to go to the dentist if they don't brush their teeth properly. So, little boys and girls, do you brush your teeth properly?" Then one of his elves - Dusty, I think - made all the children shout out that they would "promise to tidy up their bedrooms". I watched Storme shout out, too, and crossed my fingers in hope.
We were ushered on to the Post Office, where Storme and the other children placed their postcards in a big red pillar box. In the Elf School, the Mad Professor warned the children gathered around his board that Father Christmas was fat because he eats "lots of chocolates and sweets. They're bad for him. And he wouldn't be able to fit down the chimney. And we don't want that, do we boys and girls?" "NOOOOOOO!" went up an almighty cheer from the 30-strong throng (except Iona).
When we arrived at Santa's house, he was asleep; we could hear him snoring upstairs, and see the bedroom door shake with each snore. But his cup of cocoa and biscuits still sat on the table, and Mrs Claus was in. She told us stories of how difficult it was to wake up lazy old Santa when he had to go to work. We were cheered by the huge maps on the wall, some of the whole world, but mostly of London, so Santa would be able to find our house. Then we saw the sleigh, where Elder the elf was loading the toys. We could even pat the three real reindeer (with only one antler between them). Half Pint, the elf responsible for looking after the reindeer, told us something I didn't know: that Santa's sleigh is pulled by nine reindeer, each with their own name - Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Cupid, Comet, Vixen, Donner, Blitzen and, of course, Rudolph.
In the village square, children queued up politely to get their very own silver bucket full of real snow - yes, real snow, which went all slushy and melted in your hands as you formed it into a ball and threw it at your mother. Then we queued for a toboggan ride down a big slope. "This is Christmas!" cheered Storme, as if she had never been able to say that before.
We had been travelling through the kingdom for almost two hours, when an elf shouted, "Who wants to meet the main man? The man in the red suit! That's right, girls and boys - Santaaaaaaa!"
Dear reader, at this point, anyone aged 12 or under, or those adults with the heart of a child, please turn away and read no further.
At Santa's Kingdom, where the person who makes children across the world shiver with excitement on Christmas morning lives, there is more than one main man. In fact, there are 10, each allocated a darkened booth with its own discreet entrance. One of his elf-ful elves guides you to the one that is ready to welcome a child. They are so carefully concealed from each other that even the photographer, a 50-year-old with a five-year-old's heart, was convinced that he was seeing the only one. Storme, just as deluded, glowed as her one and only Santa handed over two cuddly toys dressed as wizards. Iona, keeping the mulitple Santas a secret, received a bubble making machine. She was delighted.
But such belief in the fantastical cannot last long, even for Storme. Back home, the adult's cynicism returned, as did the inevitable child's Christmas squabbles and disappointments. I have warned my daughter that, despite her postcard, Santa will not be dropping a mobile phone or laptop down our chimney. And, despite her promise to the elf Dusty and however much I nag, her bedroom remains a tip. But for a few hours in the magical kingdom, I could believe almost anything.
· There are Santa's Kingdoms at Wembley Exhibition Centre, Birmingham NEC and Glasgow SECC until December 23. For further information, see santaskingdom.co.uk. Open daily 9.30am-7.30pm. Price: £17.50 pp; ticket line: 0870 8373000.
