Christmas is magical. It always has been for me.
Ever since the day Santa* gave me Ghostbusters toys in my front room when I was a kid I’ve loved it.
It was and always will be about the build-up. When you’re a kid you can’t wait to see if Santa has visited your house. Whether he’s had a bite of mince pie and Rudolph has eaten the carrot.
Then when you heard a noise from downstairs on Christmas Eve you’d close your eyes extra tight to make sure he didn’t disappear without leaving you that present you wanted.
Nowadays the magic is still there but in a different way. The build-up starts for some in November but for the sane it starts some time in December.
We make Christmas lists, we draw Secret Santas, and we ask our loved ones what they want for the big day.
Then we decorate our desks, our houses and ourselves in Christmassy goodness and wait for the 25th to arrive.
Yet still J and I put out a mince pie for Santa, carrot for Rudolph and whatever drink we have in the house/tell ourselves Santa would like.
Because Christmas is about magic. Who cares about growing up? We know where the presents come from, but without Christmas traditions what more do you have?
It may be stressful, you may buy a present for someone that they don’t want but hey, it’s always the thought that counts.
* I was crushed to learn that the year I thought I’d met Santa it was actually my Dad. I was convinced it was him up until only a few years ago.
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