IT WAS

wrong of a well-meaning Christian to shatter young children’s dreams, saying in school assembly that Father Christmas didn’t exist and encouraging them to smash chocolate santas. Our ritual as children was to watch Dad place carrots and a pint of sherry by the fire, so when santa came down the chimney he had a nibble for Rudolph and a tipple for him. It took us a long time to realise that was why Dad was always so slow getting out of bed on Christmas Day.