When I was five years of age, I did of course believe in Santa Claus but did not taken it as a given that the jolly fat man and his weighty sack would be coming down my chimney on Christmas Eve. This uncertainty was fostered by my parents who derived much pleasure from keeping me in the dark about whether Saint Nick would unburden himself beneath our tree.
On Christmas Eve I went to bed, still wondering whether I’d been good enough to gain Santa’s favour. Christmas morning I was dismayed to discover that I’d awoken late and so I duly dashed downstairs to put my mind at rest. I opened the living room door and there beneath our Christmas tree lay a great pile of neatly wrapped gifts. My Dad stood ready with a camera and caught the expression on my face, a look of the purest most unsullied joy, the look of a five year-old boy who’s every dream and hope and prayer has been utterly realised.
But you know what? Even I didn't look as happy as this bitch.