At this festive time of year, I thought I would share something that might amuse you all....
From as far back as I can remember, every Christmas Eve, my parents would sit my brother and I down to write our letters to Father Christmas. We would then gather round the fireplace in the sitting room and dad would hold the letters over the fire, and the heat would whisk the paper up the chimney. This is how our letters were delivered to Father Christmas... Or so I thought. For an embarrassing number of years I truly believed this is what was happening. It was only late in my teens that I discovered the whole thing had been an illusion, and by slight of hand my dad was pocketing the letters, keeping them safe in a big pewter mug in the back of the drinks cabinet. What joy it was to pull them out and re-read our excited wishes years later.
The first letter I pulled out to read to the family gathered was one I myself had written. It reads:
"Please Santa, may I have some cream for my privates. Some pencils. A picture of Michael Jackson. Some play food. A colouring book and a pretty little nailbrush. Some plastic balloons, bangers, squeezy squares, playdoh, silly putty, a Beano annual, bubbles, a picture of a llama, watch, new pants, soap and surprises. Goodbye"
So there you go. A small insight into my family and my childhood desires. I might have to have it framed.
Nb: For those of you curious... Apparently I had a bladder infection at the time.