Dear Santa, Forgive me! It’s been a while since my last letter. In fact, it’s probably been more than three decades. I remember the days when the whisper of your name sent me screaming for cover. I must’ve known, even as a little girl, that it was naive to believe in the myth of fairy tales. And the older I get, the faster Christmas seems to arrive – it must be punishment for my agnoticism. Just the other day I wrote Ghosts from Christmas Past and I must say, Mount Crumpit is still my destination of choice for the holiday season. So please forgive me if the term ask and ye shall receive doesn’t sit well with my turkey. Last year I may have had a little wish in my heart but certainly not one penned to paper. And I’m sorry Santa, my festive parcel disguised in pretty wrapping was sadly a ruse. The product was way past its sell-by-date, its batteries were flat and its kindly sentiment soon melted like snow. I’d have been better off with Pinocchio. At least then I’d have known what to expect – a cold piece of wood thats nose grows every times it’s about to tell another lie. And as one who doesn’t believe in fairy tales please grant me a quantum of solace because loving something real just doesn’t seem worth the effort.