The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

If I'd told my five year old self that I'd one day be going to sleep with a stocking full of presents in the room, perfectly content not to open them until morning, it would have seemed like the ramblings of some complete lunatic, someone who had spectacularly failed to grasp the basic concept of the single most exciting event of the year. But that is what I am just about to do - having insisted upon having a stocking, even though I am, strictly speaking, a touch on the old side for one.

I spent probably about six Christmas Eves in complete sleeplessness, giddy with anticipation. The worst time was at my Great Uncle and Aunt's house, when I was convinced Father Christmas wouldn't know where to deliver my presents. I couldn't see that my parents had already tucked them away at the end of my bed, and lay awake, sobbing exhaustedly.

These days, there is nothing mystical or secretive. I sit up until my mum knocks on the door and comes in with the stocking, we have a chat and she dumps it at the foot of the bed, then I go to sleep like any other day and almost forget about it when I wake up. Strangely, I do still insist on showing my parents everything I got in the stocking, as if they hadn't seen it during the wrapping process about 12 hours previously.

I can't remember when I stopped believing in Father Christmas. I do remember having a conversation with some friends when we were about 9 or 10 - I'm pretty sure we knew the truth back then, but we weren't quite giving up on him, and were discussing the whole thing in quite a rational way. The evidence I had to offer to the debate involved waking up and finding my dad putting the presents out. He hastily patted me on the head and muttered something about "just checking he'd been", but it must have sewn a seed.

Out of all of us, I think I was one of the ones who wanted to carry on believing the longest. Even now, there's something a bit magical and illogical about it that I love, despite the trauma this time of year used to cause, and the obvious glaring facts to the contrary - I had a little start earlier, just for a fraction of a second, when I realised I hadn't arranged a mince pie and sherry, or Rudolph's carrot, and had to check myself. And I still won't hear a word against the tooth fairy. I don't believe there's any way my parents could have carried out the tooth/coin exchange, under my sleeping head, and even the fact that my mother still holds a pot with my baby teeth in isn't changing my mind.