Now that the festive season has passed it seems that a vague air of normality is creeping into the house again. Save for the fact that there was already an absurd disparity between available space and number of toys and childrens’ books which would inevitably be compounded by the deluge presented willingly, and kindly to Oran and the baby criminal. Add to that the fact that my wife and I are more often than not the architects of our downfall, and that there remain a number of toys, prams, buggies and the like still boxed which we desperately need to find homes for, a bumper pile for the charity stop notwithstanding.

I am no scrooge when it comes to Christmas, particularly now the day has a greater resonance than ever, thanks to the wide-eyed wonder and expectation parenthood adds. While the religious overtones have no stock with me and my (currently) heathen offspring, I think that there is a kindness and empathy for friend, family and stranger alike which could often do with being replicated for the other 364 days of the year. Moreover, I am not concerned in the slightest in the true meaning being lost; rampant consumerism aside the coincidence of the appropriation of the Pagan festival of Saturnalia seem too striking, save for the fact that Christians would never have celebrated Christmas as is now anyway.

I do have an issue with Christmas, though. Santa. There, I’ve said it. Old Saint Nick. Fat cheery fellow with the red suit, reindeer and sleigh. Just to be clear as well; I’ve no worries that he has subjugated the true meaning of Christmas. Indeed, his seems a fairly integral part of the whole shooting match, save for turkey breeders, wrapping paper manufacturers and toy shops. There was even a suitably dour looking Presbyterian sort who roamed the streets of Edinburgh with a doom-mongering sandwich board which proclaimed Santa=Satan. As far as I’m concerned he certainly seems a much nicer chap, should you wish to demarcate between imaginary figures.

My concern is that this chubby vigilante, however well intentioned, gets the credit for the presents we get our children. I don’t dispute that the threat of his ire can be a useful tool (from at least mid November onwards), especially in a household where humanist honour and pride are the greatest metaphysical threats to be wielded with any credibility.

Lula still largely works on the premise that every day is Christmas. Her second was certainly her best, though, and confirmed my other notion that we should simply lie to our children about the presents they received before they can actually remember. Moreover, Oran has humbled and amazed me the last two Christmas days running with a genuine gratitude and lack of petulance at any stage that makes me think he may simply be a very gifted actor, or youthful con artist in our midst.

This, though, is a double-edged sword; Oran innocently informed all who asked him that he would get ‘everything’ for Christmas. More pointedly (and cunningly), when he spied a gift for my business partner’s son he gleefully informed me that he’d really hoped Santa would bring it for him, meaning another Spiderman winging its way to the North Pole.

A trip with boy wonder, a school friend and his wonderful daughter to see Arthur Christmas may have compounded matters, but the wonder and joy the portly chap brings means it’s churlish at best, and mean spirited at worst to grudge him his moment in the limelight. That said, I think we’ll say he only brings one present a year….