All I want for Christmas is to be asked what I want for Christmas

FOR me, the start of the Festive Season is the launch of the John Lewis ad each year. I wait with bated breath to see what genius idea the marketing team will come up to make us all cry and then ... I cry.

My favourite was Monty the Penguin followed closely by the Man on the Moon. I loved the message of love and friendship and schmaltz. I’m all about the schmaltz at Christmas. This year’s ad, for those of you who haven’t seen it, is basically a tribute to Elton John. It tells the story of Elton getting a piano for Christmas as a boy and making his dreams come true. The ad apparently cost €7 million to make and I didn’t come close to crying. #EpicFail.

I’d have hated a piano for Christmas. I’ve had some dodgy presents over the years but thankfully Santa never considered me musical enough to buy me a piano. And isn’t it funny how clearly you remember the presents you hated, whilst the ones you loved become a distant memory.

One time I asked Santa for a doll called First Love. Santa obviously wasn’t on his A Game that year because he brought me Tiny Tears. I was outraged and scribbled all over her in black pen before abandoning her in the toybox.

My poor mother got a foot spa from Santa one year. That was a Christmas I will never forget! The dinner was cooked and eaten in stony silence while she glared at everyone over the top of the bottle of Blue Nun.

Then there was the time, Santa decided to bring us a “family” present which consisted of a full size pool table which smelled suspiciously of fags and stale beer. It barely fitted into the living room and you had to scooch around it to get from one side of the room to the other. My brother and my dad were delighted with themselves; myself and my mother, not so much. Santa had a lot of making up to do the following year.

Which is why I always make it clear now what I want for Christmas. If you don’t ask, you don’t get and I know from personal experience to be specific in my requests so as to leave no room for error. “Why does no one ever ask me what I want for Christmas?” I asked the kids the other day. “Because YOU tell everyone exactly what you want!” they replied in unison. So Santa, if you’re reading this, I’d like Days of the Week underwear, socks with my initials on, books and if you’re feeling really generous, I’m quite partial to a bit of Jo Malone too. I don’t want a foot spa. I don’t want a pool table.

And I definitely do not want a piano!