Who was Santa, really? Aged eight, I devised a cunning plan to catch him in the act, involving a booby trap and a camera. Unfortunately, the joke was on me …
It was Christmas Eve, 1987. The cold war was beginning to emit its last frosty guffs, Thatcher had set her sights on gay children, and Michael Fish was keeping his head down. In England’s deep south, my sister and I conspired in our bedroom. We are twins: she got the brains; I, being the eldest by a full six minutes, was to inherit the estates and titles, except there were none because my idealistic pinko parents had spent their working lives in public service.
Earlier in the year, my sister had attempted to prove the existence of God. Worried about the health of her pet rabbit, Wodger, she penned him a letter pleading for help, with a rather clever “Please tick if you have read this” box at the end.
Continue reading...
