It’s not long until Christmas and my eldest daughter is telling me what she wants from Santa Claus.
“I want a magic set,” the seven-year-old says after finishing breakfast.
“That’s good,” I say.
“And a magician’s hat.”
“Wow, yeah. That’d be cool.”
“It’ll be a big hat, not one for rabbits. I’ll be able to put people in it and make them disappear.”
“And I want a box so I can saw people in half,” she says.
“And a magic pen.”
“Oh, you mean one that writes in invisible ink.”
“No,” she says, looking at me as if I’m thick. “It will write in the same ink as my fountain pen for school. It will be magic because it will do my homework for me. It will write it all out for me. I will put my homework down on the table and the pen will do it for me like magic. And I will ask for a robot, too. A robot that’s my size and looks like me and can make my bed and pick up all the toys.”
“Wow, Santa’s sure got his work cut out for him,” I say.
But she’s not listening. She’s got more on her list. “I want a pair of trainers, you know, the ones with wheels on the bottom so I can glide around.” She does a demonstration for me on the kitchen floor like she’s roller-skating.
“I think Santa can handle that,” I say optimistically.
But these aren’t just shoes for gliding, she tells me. “They’ve got wings that pop out so I’ll be able to fly just like Santa and his reindeer.”
This certainly is going to be a magical Christmas.