A caution: the following content contains speculation regarding the identity of a particular bearded individual residing in the northern pole. If you or anyone in your household holds a strong attachment to this individual, this article may not be suitable for you.
Now that’s settled, let me paint you a picture of where you’ll find me: slouched and bleary-eyed at my desk, adding the final touches to the annual letters from Santa that I craft for my nieces and nephews (whom I affectionately refer to as niblings).
This marks my tenth year undertaking this task. Initially, when I embarked on this journey, I had no children of my own, but eight niblings. Fast forward to the present, and I now have 18 niblings along with two kids. In the beginning, back in 2014, I was stuck in a monotonous temporary office job with minimal opportunities for creativity. The letters served as a much-needed escape from the mundane routine of spreadsheets and monotonous team gatherings. Today, I find myself perched within the realms of the literary and media elite – over the past six years, a grand total of two individuals have even recognized me on the street – thus, this yearly task leaves me drained yet facing a more discerning audience.
Fortunately, crafting these letters remains the highlight of my annual writing endeavors. Not only do they uphold a tradition of receiving heartfelt letters to Santa from my beloved young ones, but they also offer glimpses into their lives. Given that time and distance have reduced my interactions with these kids, reading about their adventures throughout the year, confirming their mostly good behavior, and deciphering their gift preferences provides a window into their minds. Plus, who would have guessed that ripped denim flares are making a comeback?
Receiving these letters makes portraying Santa surprisingly effortless. His endearing absent-minded, scatterbrained persona aligns perfectly with my mental state every December. This year, Santa jests about the chilling temperatures causing the elves’ words to freeze in mid-air, necessitating them to warm their words over a stove for audible communication. He shares updates on the requested gifts, along with some cool stickers and a detailed illustration of Santa’s Arctic Fortress, which may or may not draw inspiration from the Times’ famously speculative 2001 diagram of Osama bin Laden’s Tora Bora hideout. It wouldn’t be complete children’s literature without a nod to the cynical, skeptical parents.
Undoubtedly, there’s a tinge of sadness that accompanies this annual ritual. Among the 20 children who receive these letters, I classify seven as firm believers, while five are too young to comprehend. The rest have, let’s say, veered off the Santa bandwagon (or sleigh) and now draft their letters with a pragmatic, gift-centric approach akin to drafting an expense report. As time progresses, their numbers may swell, but I choose not to dwell on this fact. My focus remains on ensuring no one is overlooked. I believe I have a list around here somewhere; time to double-check it.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is available now (Published by Little, Brown, priced at £16.99). Purchase a copy from guardianbookshop for £14.78.