The one where I am never invited round for wine and mince pies ever again

I think I may have foot in mouth disease.

Or some such ridiculous ailment which causes me to regret almost everything that comes out of my mouth the instant it is uttered.

After last week's debacle I thought I may be on the road to recovery.

But no. Apparently not.

Let me explain.

You see I'm not really a Christmassy sort of person. I think I may be in denial about the whole event. Two days away you say? Still plenty of time to buy presents surely...

In fact, when I was 19, instead of spending Christmas with my family I ran away to Thailand for a month and sat on a beach on my own. My brother put a photo of me in my place at the table and laid a party hat on top of it.

It runs deep you see. And I still don't think I've been quite forgiven.

Before I became a mother I had this image that I would tell my children the truth about Father Christmas. Why would I want to lie to them? I mean, how awful would it be for them to love and trust their mother only for them to find out that the man with the white beard and red outfit never even existed and that I'd known all along?

But then when I became a mother it all changed.

Of course it did.

But then everything does, doesn't it?

So now I help them choose what biscuits to leave by the fireplace and share their excitement when they wake up in the morning to find that two out of the three have been eaten, whilst subtley wiping crumbs from the corner of my mouth. And I read them stories about The Night Before Christmas and skip the pages where the little girl doubts that Father Christmas exists. I mean, I wouldn't want to put any funny thoughts into their head, would I?

I love their little faces and the hopes and dreams that fill them.

As every mother does.

Ahem.

Cut to this afternoon where I'm sharing wine and mince pies with a friend.

Her eight-year-old daughter approaches us.

"Are you excited about Christmas?" I ask.

She nods.

"My favourite part was always getting the stocking from Father Christmas", I continued.

"Do you think Father Christmas will still bring me presents even though I'm grown-up?" She asked with a wry smile (or so I thought).

"Of course", I replied. "Father Christmas brought me presents until I was 18, even though I knew he didn't exist.

Her eyes grew wider than I even thought possible.

"You mean he really doesn't exist?"

Oh fuckity fuck............

THE seminal moment in a child's life, ruined by yours truly.

I think I shall go back to hating Christmas again. Or failing that, stick my head under the bed covers and not come out until January 1st.

Now there's a thought...