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There was no moment of revelation. I realised at a fairly young age that Father Christmas (which is what we called the bearded man in my neck of the woods, before this American Santa bullshit took over) was probably not a real phenomenon. But I was able to not question that fact, and continue to enjoy the magic, because children are good at ignoring cognitive dissonance. We spent Christmas at my grandmother's, and the room I and my brother slept in had an opaque glass door. I remember aged about ten, seeing the silhouette of what was clearly my father, filling the stockings outside (and necking the whisky we had left for Father Christmas). That wasn't a moment of shock, but rather a sad realisation that I had to give up on the last vestiges of a belief that I'd largely rejected years ago. But because I'm drunk, and because of the season, I'm going to say that I still believe in Father Christmas. He's the beardy, red nosed embodiment of a living tradition. Good will to all men. Have a glass of sherry and a mince pie. Also St Nicholas threw some hands with the heretic Arius, and he helps out prostitutes, so God bless that dude.
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Dec 24, 2016 00:37
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| # ¿ May 17, 2024 20:45 |
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