SINCE 1994 Santa has been a visitor to my house. He has come for our five kids for 30 years, and he has come for our granddaughter too. This year it is looking like it is his last year for a little while until, please God, we are gifted with more grandchildren.
We will miss him something shocking. He was a rascal, coming into flats, down chimneys, avoiding back boilers, stoves and two dogs. He came with toys that must have taken a long time to unpack, with screws to even get them out of boxes, follow instructions, screw together, install batteries and stick on a hundred stickers before they were put in the sleigh – and for five children under the age of 10, there were a few of those for each child!
He came and drank red wine, cups of espresso and the odd whiskey. He ate mince pies, Christmas cake, home made cookies, and early-opened selection boxes. Indeed, how much he ate and drank was measured before the toys were inspected! It was strange how the newly purchased Gaviscon had also had a go in the middle of the night.
He brought the right toys, the wrong toys, and sometimes forgot to put toys with the rest of the toys, only to be discovered later that day having somehow made their way down the back of the sofa. The year of the four bikes and a rocking horse meant that the boys' presents were thoughtfully put into the kitchen – which caused roars that he hadn’t come, and according to the then eight-year-old, he was a b****rd, and it was all my fault because I had not sent the letter up the chimney right in November. Of course, the screaming nearly caused several injuries as their father and myself bolted down the stairs to discover that the bikes and bits were indeed delivered and lying at the kitchen table beside the honey roasted ham! The subsequent discussion on using bad words when faced with things going wrong went as far over the young fella’s head as the sleigh that had departed a few short hours earlier.
One year he came and somehow let the dog escape at three in the morning. We were sure we could hear him calling “Páid!” in a hoarse whisper to prevent calamity. When we woke up, the Jack Russell was indeed safely home, if covered in horse sh*te from his own Christmas adventure the night before!
Santa never wrapped the toys that came to our house. Maybe he was environmentally friendly ahead of his time, but it is far more likely that the screwdriver escapades, with their accompanying blood-soaked fingers and blackened fingernails, were unlikely to have been able for much more. He was obviously far more organised for other houses where copious presents were wrapped beautifully and individually, and I respect that a lot.
Yeah, me and himself are going to miss the Big Fella. But the five kids and granddaughter bring a new Christmas spirit and we are creating new traditions which are precious and fun.
Christmas Eve still has cake and mince pies, but now also cheeses and paté. And while it might have a little less magic, it does have lots and lots of shared love.
So slán go fóil Santa, agus Nollaig shona, a chairde.
