I saw him only once in my life, Santa Claus. I was seven years old, living back on the farm.
Hardly sleeping with excitement, I heard a strange rustling. Silently I crept downstairs, peering around the wooden bannister into the living room.
And there he was. Dirty red suit, big black plastic sack, raggedy beard, much skinnier than I’d imagined. Knowing I couldn’t be seen as it would spoil the magic, I breathed in the moment and tiptoed back to bed.
Christmas morning, I woke up to mum screaming that the presents had gone.
I never told a soul my secret.