Myth #2 – Santa isn’t real

What???!!!! Of course he is! I’ve always believed in Santa. What’s not to believe? Who else do you suppose eats the mince pie and drinks the milk we leave out on Christmas Eve? We used to leave him a glass of wine, but as H got a bit older I gave some serious thought to the health implications of Santa downing a glass of red wine and scoffing a mince pie at every stop. There’s also the issue of being drunk in charge of a sleigh, which I suspect is, strictly speaking, illegal. These days we leave him a glass of milk.

And then there’s the carrot – we can’t blame the cat for eating that, as she’s not a big veg eater at all. Nope, it’s those reindeer all right. So far they haven’t left any poo on the lawn, but as we’re upping the stakes in the whole proof-that-Santa-is-real game, I suspect they might do this year.

And what about the snowy footprints leading from the chimney to the enormous pile of flipping presents, eh? Last year, after having opened the aforementioned enormous pile, smarty pants pointed out that the snow from Santa’s boots hadn’t melted. Well that’s because it’s magic snow, from the North Pole, which is a very magical place.

Barcodes, there’s another thing I’ve had to explain. Just to clarify, the elves have an awful lot of presents to keep track of, and I think it’s fair to say that a digital inventory system is essential if H doesn’t want to end up with a boy’s dressing gown that’s four sizes too big for her under the tree. And whilst we’re on the subject, the same goes for the Easter Bunny. Just because the chocolate eggs have barcodes on them, does not necessarily mean they came from Asda.

The whole question of Santa’s authenticity has been brought into sharp focus this week, prompted by Mum bringing round a photo of me sitting on Santa’s lap when I was little. I showed it to H, thinking she’d be impressed. As is often the case, I was mistaken. Here’s how the conversation went:

H (pointing at Santa’s face): “That is, really, isn’t it….”
Me (thinking she was in a state of excitable disbelief): “It really is….”
H: “Cotton wool.”

I think I’d better write to Santa and tell him he needs to up his game.

Cleaerly an actual beard there, not cotton wool, wouldn't you say?
Cleaerly an actual beard there, not cotton wool, wouldn’t you say?
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