December 2: The night I met Father Christmas
- Credit: Archant
My favourite Christmas memory was probably the night I met Father Christmas.
Rumours were abound on the school playground as to how old Santa Claus managed to get to everyone’s house in one night. One unenlightened kid told me he had a magical key which unlocked every front door. What an idiot. I told him everyone knows he goes down the chimney. He’s not a milkman, I said.
A couple of years before when driving back from my auntie’s my brother yelled he could see Santa and his sleigh. It was a week until Christmas Day but I looked out of the window anyway. It was a long and desperate search. I had lost him.
But then one evening, perhaps on the eve of Christmas Eve, I thought I would get him. I would meet Santa. I would stay awake all night and see him, face-to-face. Tell him I was angry at him for rejecting my plea for a new bed the year before.
I was only eight or nine but I got past midnight, having been put to bed three hours before. I was a nervous wreck. Then I heard steps coming up the stairs. I closed my eyes. I felt items placed in my stocking at the end of my bed. I opened my eyes.....and there he was.