I am seven years old.
It is Christmas morning and I am lying in Helen’s bed, waiting until Dad has been downstairs to check that Father Christmas has remembered to call at our house.
“He’s been!!” he shouts and me and my five-year-old sister run down the stairs and nearly explode with joy when we see a room full of presents.
And there it is: the tape recorder I had been praying for.
I press play and at first, there is nothing. Then there is a deep breath, and a voice says:
“This. Is. Father. Christmas. Ho. Ho.Ho.”
In a Welsh accent.
Helen is so astonished she stops pushing her shopping trolley around the room as I play Father Christmas’s message over and over again.
Mum smiles and Dad winks. And the house is everything it should be on the day Santa wished us a Happy Christmas.