Advent
02 December 2017
Today Donald tells me that I can write my letter to Santa Claus. I am watching TV, but he turns it off. I look at him. He's smiling. He's completely, completely serious.
If Maisie and Donald were the kind of grown-ups who ever made jokes then I might think it was a joke. But I know it's not. He's put out a sheet of paper on the dining room table. I tell him I don't want to, but he says Oh, sure you do. Come on. How else will he know what to get you for Christmas?
Mum never pretended about stupid things like this. She never lied to me. Not once. She always said there was too much untrue stuff in the world to start making up more just for fun. She always said that dishonesty was the worst thing. That everything bad came from that. And that grown-ups lied because they were scared. Because they'd grown all the way up and still hadn't figured anything out for themselves.
I think Mum telling me the truth about everything was part of the problem. She was too honest. Too real. She always made people uncomfortable wherever we went.
That's why I have to live with Maisie and Donald now. That's why I only get to see her every other month or so.
With Donald watching over my shoulder, I write:
DEAR SANTA.
I want: an XBOX and a scooter. I haven’t been good this year but I want them anyway.
I won’t be leaving out any mince pies or carrots for you because YOU ARE NOT REAL.
But that is what I want: AN XBOX. A SCOOTER.
Signed: LUKE.
I watch Donald make a show of putting the paper in an envelope and writing on it and licking it and sealing it shut. Want to come with me and put it in the postbox? He waves it in front of me. On the envelope it says:
FATHER CHRISTMASSanta's GrottoReindeerlandXM4 5HQ
I tell him it's okay and he can post it himself, because I'm too excited to walk all the way to the postbox. I go and watch TV. From the sofa I hear Donald actually pulling on his coat and actually going out the door.