Do you know what you want for Christmas? Fifteen years ago I knew EXACTLY what I wanted. I’d spent months pouring over the Argos catalogue and, when I was told that no, I COULDN’T have a miniature car, I settled on the next best thing: Barbie roller-skates.
Upon making my decision, I went straight to my mum and told her to write to Santa to tell him what I wanted (I was an incredibly lazy child). She kindly obliged and the next day told me that she’d sent the letter.
But then it hit me. Santa didn’t know my shoe size.
I ran to my mum in a wild panic and quickly explained the situation. ‘YOU’LL HAVE TO WRITE AGAIN!’ I yelled. ‘HOW ELSE WILL HE KNOW?!’
Now, my mum is a very quick-thinking lady. And I was quite a simple minded child. She calmly replied that she had Santa’s phone number, and went off to phone him up and tell him my shoe size. I ended up with a pair of perfectly fitting Barbie roller skates that year. It was a good year. However, I now realised that my mum was in possession of the most valuable thing in the world ever: SANTA’S PHONE NUMBER.
For the next couple of years I became convinced that my mum was always on the phone to Santa. I’d try to eavesdrop on her conversations, and even stole her phonebook a couple of times (sorry mum!). I didn’t find a ‘Santa’, but I did find a ‘Sandra’. I briefly entertained the notion of calling this ‘Sandra’, in case it was some kind of cover-up, but decided against it.
After a couple of years of sneaking around, I finally worked out that my mum didn’t have his phone number, because he DIDN’T EXIST.
I quietly took my older sister aside to tell her, just in case she was still being deceived. Luckily she’d already worked it out but told me that, as the youngest, I had to continue to pretend to believe in him ‘in case the presents stopped’.
As it turned out, I was quite a talented actress. My parents thought I believed in Santa until I was 12.