The Christmas that went wrong: Why on earth was Santa wearing my uncle’s sneakers?
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Even at four, I could see Father Christmas for who he really was – especially as he smelled of Old Spice. As a child, I was an amateur detective; a master of argument and the suspicious side-eye. The adult world seemed to be defined by determined, capable people making important decisions and I was desperate to be one of them. In short, I was precocious. And I’m sorry to everybody I came up against. Especially my uncle Dan.
Christmas 1989 was exciting for four-year-old me. I had visited the mall Santa a few weeks before and been crystal clear in my request for a magic tea set and world peace (see? Insufferable). Christmas Eve celebrations at my grandparents’ were an unbridled success. As the first grandchild, I reaped the benefits of generous aunties and uncles and I ate my weight in potatoes and sausages.
That was when I heard them: sleigh bells. My mom stopped tucking me into bed and looked surprised. I was confused: surely, Santa wouldn’t have made such a rookie error as to show up before I had fallen asleep. There must be some mistake. “Annie!” my dad shouted from the living room. “Annie, come quick!”.
There was no time to lose. I leapt out of bed, my mom smiling as she trailed behind me. I ran down the hallway into our foyer. That was when I saw him. Santa. Right there. Standing in front of me. Ho-ho-ho-ing like I had never heard before. I walked up to him in shock, thrilled that my humble request for a peaceful world had inspired him to visit me. I looked at my parents, my grandma and the pals who had swung by for a little Christmas cheer. They were bearing witness to a miracle.
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