Dear Santa,

IHOPE you get this letter. I am 50 years old but my nineyear-old daughter couldn’t believe I have never written to you. I tried to explain to her that when I was little times were so different, back then before mobile phones and Aldi — the dark ages. I told her though, Santa, how you never let me down, even in tough times you arrived without fail; a Lego set, a gun with string and cork, a football, a Warlord annual and the yearly visit of the Guinness Book of Records. Even now I can see the Christmas tree of my youth, the presents neatly arranged for each child. I can see the wallpaper and hear the excitement as we waited outside the door of the good room. I can even see the box of lemon sweets delivered by our endearing babysitter, Little May.

How I wish I had written before now to thank you for the wonderful world of memories you gave me, the love which I always felt which was never flinched. Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my senior years, maybe it is the spirit of Christmas. I want at this point to thank Mrs Claus because as my father used to say, behind every good man is a great woman, and undoubtedly you are truly wonderfully great.

My daughter insists that writing to you should conclude with a Christmas list, so with some embarrassment and a little sense of fun could you find room on your sleigh for the following: no mention of Brexit for 24 hours; a prime-time programme showing someone accountable for something, anything; Meath to win the All-Ireland; and, finally, good health to my two mischievous but lovable children and my long-suffering and amazingly tolerant wife. Yours forever, Daddy

Peter Murtagh, Kells, Co Meath