Letter of the lore

Dear Father Christmas, I know many people who believe in you; none more heartily than my five-year-old god- daughter, Hannah. She used to worry terribly about you getting stuck up the chimney, but recently she learned about some class of a magic trick you use to avoid such eventualities.

We don't have a chimney that isn't blocked in our house, so my boyfriend and I will be staying with Hannah tonight. Luckily, her house has several chimneys, all with sparkling flues. I am writing, by the way, because my belief in you is wavering. I am writing because I want to believe.

I thought I'd begin by mentioning Hannah's recent announcement that, instead of leaving milk and biscuits for you and your reindeers, tonight she will be leaving a bottle of champagne. It's vintage Veuve, you'll be glad to hear. Because, apparently, you're worth it.

She has been very good. It's hard to be anything else when you are five. I've been exceptionally well behaved, too, and you know very well it's a lot easier to be naughty when you get to my age. To the irritation of certain people, I laid off the drink for a while. Apparently, I am a very boring pioneer. "You're a nightmare without a drink," was the actual quote. Still, despite my abstemious intentions, I might have to help you with the Veuve Clicquot tonight, it being Christmas and all.

For the most part I've been nice as opposed to naughty, but that's not really why I am writing. As each year passes I seem to get (whisper it) less enthralled by Christmas. It has been an almost imperceptibly subtle slide. I find it harder each year to taste the magic of the season. I find myself wondering what it's all about - what you are about, even. The religious aspect doesn't touch me - never has if I'm honest, even if I do enjoy the odd carol service.

That wouldn't bother me so much if, while decorating my beautiful tree, I didn't catch myself pondering what the tree was for. And the two furry red-and- white stockings hung with care on the window sill, with our names written on them in gold. What's that all about?

A visitor laughed at them, and I took it to heart, feeling silly for trying to create the magic of you in my home. Everyone says it's a time for children, but what about the children in grown- ups? She's growing older. She's losing interest. She's a tiny bit sad about it.

I was researching you on the internet when I came across something that cheered me up. It was the letter Virginia O'Hanlon sent to the New York Sun in 1897, something I had a distant memory of hearing about. "Dear Editor," it read. "I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says if you see it in the Sun, it's so. Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?"

I expect you know about the reply, written, in an unsigned editorial, by Francis P Church, but I'll just jog your memory with an extract. (I know you are not getting any younger.)

"Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [ what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little . . .

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The external light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

"Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies . . . The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in this world . . .

"Only faith, poetry, love, romance can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

In faith, love, poetry and romance, I remain your Róisín. xxx