Mummy Are You Lying To Me?

The Santa inquisition

My pint-sized interrogator stares at me with ill-disguised contempt. I fear my explanations lack the depth he requires. Why can't he just ask his father?

‘Mum, are you listening? I said, what if he comes down the chimney when the fire is lit?' He is frowning at me, waiting for a response.

But I don't have an answer. I can't contradict what I've always told him: That Father Christmas arrives in the middle of the night and lands his sleigh and reindeer on the roof of the house and climbs down the chimney with his presents. I have to think fast.

‘He wears magic trousers. Like firemen wear. To protect him.' Phew, that was a close one.

Time was, when I could tell him anything and he'd accept it with an innocent smile. But these days, I have to watch my step. He's only six, but he's a smart cookie.

‘And how come Dad gets really cross with the satellite dish man when he climbs on the roof and breaks the tiles...but he doesn't mind lots of reindeer up there, clattering about?'

‘Do you want a chocolate biscuit?'

‘Answer me, Mum.'

‘Because they wear special reindeer slippers that fit over their hooves.'

‘Reindeers don't wear slippers.'

‘How do you know that? Has a reindeer ever told you they don't wear slippers?'

‘No.'

‘Well there you are, then. Here, please have a biscuit.'

I want to stop the questions before he moves on to any of the really difficult areas like explaining the logistics of visiting all the world's children in one night and allowing strange old men into your bedroom.

How did we ever get ourselves into such a mess? Sometimes the whole Father Christmas deception can lead to serious stress. For really bad liars (like myself), it becomes difficult to relax. Danger lurks everywhere.

Older children are difficult to protect against. For reasons best known to themselves, big brothers and sisters will sometimes wilfully explode the Santa myth for little siblings. That's not very nice - not in the spirit of Christmas, at all!

‘And neither is lying to little kids' they snap back in their defence. Pretty hard to argue against that one. It's a parenting nightmare - you can't do right for doing wrong.

Those tense visits to Santa's Grotto are enough to push you over the edge. Eagle-eyed young children will notice things. Like the fact that Santa has an iPhone and an Arsenal tattoo. And in the letter to Lapland that they pored over for hours, they asked for a Powermon Pokeranger - but all he gave them were stickers and some chocolate reindeer droppings. Provoking yet more questions....

Last year, when Father Christmas came to visit the school, I really thought the game was up. The teachers had asked for a parent to volunteer to be the portly, bearded guy in red. Amélie's Dad had stuck his hand up.

And that was great! Amélie's Dad is a nice guy! But there is just one thing about him that you can't really overlook....his enormous white beard...and striking resemblance to you know who. Incredibly, nobody seemed to think that this should prevent him from taking on Santa responsibilities. In fact, they seemed to think it made him the perfect man for the job.

I kept my mouth shut, believing I must be the only person to see the flaw in this plan. Surely all the kids would recognise him? Didn't they see him pick up his daughter from the school gates every day?

When my son arrived home on the day of the visit he was rather quiet. When he eventually spoke, it was to tell me rather firmly that the real Father Christmas had not been able to make it. So, Amélie's Dad had stepped in. And he drives a Nissan Micra...not a sleigh....so it was definitely not the real one...

I think we just about got away with it - but time is running out.

So this Christmas Eve as once again we act out the ritual of leaving a carrot for Rudolf and a mince pie for Father Christmas, I will remind myself to cherish the moment...because the magic can't last forever.

And I will try and suppress the panic that is beginning to mount within. What the hell am I going to tell him about the Easter Bunny? And the Tooth Fairy for chrissakes?

He'll never believe a word I say, ever again.