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Santa is a made up glory hunter.

November 7, 2009

I have ordered the first of Rachels christmas presents. I am skint. Fairly skint, anyway. It’s going to take a fair bit of financial magi-trickery to ensure that christmas is gotten through without us ending up in the poor house.

I have ordered some lovely things- lots of Dora the Explorer tat, and what she is getting mirrors the list she wrote for Santa fairly accurately. (Apart from the BIG SCISSORS!). Things which show how well I know her, how much I want her to be happy. Presents that hopefully will make her squeal with delight.

Who is going to get credit for this? A made up fat bloke, in a bad suit. Not only do I have to hand over all credit for my time and money, to this made up fat bloke. I have to leave him out a sodding mince pie, and draft a response to the letter that we carefully wrote to him, on his behalf.

Pah. Santa- you are a glory hunting twat. I am going to tell her that Santa doesn’t exist. I am going to tell her he is just another mechnism, by which a patriarchal society, takes credit for motherhood, away from women.

Maybe I wont. Think I might do what we did last year, and get her big brother to hide upstairs on Christmas morning, and pretend it is Santa, checking to see if she likes her presents…

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6 comments

  1. I now know that my mum used to sprinkle glitter oround the house leading up to Christmas, with dec 1st being glitter sprinkled at the front door & xmas eve arriving at my bedroom door in a trail. Am shattered that this was a cunning plan by her and not the fairies (the glitter being fairy dust from their wings as they were checking that I was ok & sleeping early on the run up to Christmas) Just a sick ploy to get a hyper toddler into bed by a tired mother. Clearly it worked as I did get my santa presents on Christmas morning & remember it now.
    I too should have told my kids that Santa doesnt exist as it cost me a fortune. The git gets the credit for most of the hard work over Christmas. Bah humbug


  2. STOCKINGS are from Father Christmas. All other presents are from whoever they’re from and they can damn well be grateful for them. Never tell your children everything is from Father Christmas, never!

    And don’t get me started on the bloody tooth fairy.


    • That is quite simply-GENIUS. And I shall not be giving Santa credit for anything but the stocking from now on.


      • Are you being sarky? (Or am I being paranoid. Nobody’s ever called me a genius before so I’m going with sarky :-p)


      • Nope. Am not being sarky. I shall no longer be giving credit to Santa. And it was your message that did it. Simple, yet effective!


  3. This reminds me of the story my mum told me about finding out there wasn’t a Santa: there she was on Christmas Eve in the middle of the night, all tucked up in bed, shivering with excitement, and she heard some steps on the stairs. She pricked up her ears to hear the footsteps come further and further up…then heard her mother shout “SHIT!” and the thump-wump-wump of her and her sibling’s presents falling down the stairs. Needless to say, she went straight back to sleep.



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