Recently I've been thinking about santa and my part in perpetuating the whole myth. Consequently, I decided it important i should cautiously present a measured argument to my granddaughter on the possible fantasy surrounding Santa Claus.

Leila, a newly minted teenager, likes a robust discussion so we sat down over a chocolate frappe to talk calmly about the possible non-existence of Mr Claus.

‘Leila,’ I began, ‘there are some people who are real though we might wish they weren’t.’ 
‘Like my brother,’ she announced. ‘Really?’ I said, ‘which one?’ ‘You know,’ she answered.  ‘OK,’ I said, pushing on and not naming anyone, ‘but there are other dudes, like Santa, who maybe aren’t real but we might wish they were.’ She frowned but didn’t comment except to say, ‘We don’t say ‘dudes’ anymore.’

‘Cool. But also,’ I said, warming up again, ‘there are some things that defy logic.’ She nodded. ‘Like the Vision diet,’ she said.  ‘What’s that?’ I ask. ‘You wear blue-tinted glasses when you eat,’ she explained shaking her head, ‘no logic in that.’

‘That’s really crazy,’ I agreed, ‘in fact, it’s just as crazy as the concept of a B-triple-sized sleigh overloaded with enough gifts to spread overnight across the whole world, powered along by a tireless team of Norwegian reindeers being cajoled by a grinning old man in gumboots who gains entry by climbing down chimneys and looking for cookies and warm craft beer.’

Leila rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not stupid, Grin-Ding (I know, ‘Grin-Ding’ sounds silly, but that’s what she’s always called me). Besides we don’t have a chimney, so he obviously has a master key’. 

‘Right,’ I said.  ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘we’re discussing Santa.’

‘So, have you got any other questions?’ I asked. ‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘what are you doing about the changing climate and when will you apologise for all the mess?’ 

‘Nice try, Leila,’ I said, letting that one smack into the keeper’s gloves. ‘Let’s get Santa out of the way first. Now, do you accept this whole Christmas-presents-from-Santa business is a sham?’
‘No, I don’t!’ she firmly replied, ‘but I do believe in melting ice-caps, carbon dioxide build-up, species extinction and our stubborn dependence on fossil fuel.

Yes,’ she went on, ‘I can appreciate Santa’s workshops are probably full of underpaid elves making unsustainable plastic stuff for kids. I do wish he’d address that, but don’t knock his raison d’etre. What choice has he got in servicing so many kids in this sick and overpopulated world?

Wake up, Grin-Ding, it’s so obvious we need Santa; we still need to believe in him! So, until you fix the planet, let’s leave Santa Claus for another day.’ Yep, she’s got me there but I can still wriggle out of this, I thought, and I won’t let her confuse me with her newly-acquired French.

‘Raison d’etres?’ I said, ‘I didn’t know Santa baked.’ I hadn’t come across my raison d’etres until I tasted a plate of other Petit Fours at the Kawana Forest French Patisserie a week ago.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she scoffed.
‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ I laughed.
‘Whoa, Grin-Ding!’ she said slowly and looking at me suspiciously, ‘I never heard you laugh like that before.’ Suddenly she lit up, gave me a big hug and whispered knowingly, ‘Thanks for the frappe, Santy.’

I sighed, ‘And Merry Christmas to you, Fairytale Girl (that’s what this Grin-Ding has always called his granddaughter). Now where’s that Christmas tree?’