Dear Santa Claus,
I’m so sorry that I said I don’t believe in you. I realise that every time I propped up a letter on the mantelpiece for you, begging for a pony, you could not deliver as the chimney was too narrow for equine ingress. This is what my parents told me anyway.
Years went by, I grew up and, as is said, I put away childish things, including my belief in your mythological personage. Myths aren’t real, right? Right?
Anyway, I’m not complaining about my life, it has been very good and I love the view from the window in my little flat; I can see over the roofs to the river twinkling in the distance, and the little park where the current crop of children are playing on sledges in the snow.
I do feel guilty that when my neighbour’s children came to my door last night to sing Christmas carols, (with it being Christmas Eve), I told them to go away. Christmas and Santa are no more than made up twaddle to try and force people to spend money they can’t afford, on rubbish that will break before the day is out.
I admit I felt a bit bad when the little lassie started to cry when I told her that her parents have to work overtime to provide her with presents. She is old enough to realise this, surely?
Her dad came around and told me that I’m a wicked old witch; his little girls were trying to do a nice thing singing for me, but I sent him away with a flea in his ear and asked him if Santa had ever given him what he asked for?
His answer, “Not usually, but I always got what I needed which is even better, and it still left my dreams intact.”
Dreams? Hah! Who needs dreams anyway?
Well the reason I am sending you this apology is because when I woke up this morning and went to make my usual cup of tea, I found a pile of soot in front of my electric fire and a fat, smug looking pony. It was wearing a jolly Santa hat and chewing on a card which says, “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas, sorry about the delay.”
I have no way of getting it down the stairs, or even through the door onto the landing. It’s a pretty thing and will make some child very happy, but I’m seventy three and live in a fourth floor flat.
Please come and collect at your earliest convenience, and, er,