Since the hours of the red suited hairy man popping down the chimney are nigh I would like to make this a Christmas themed post.
I recently received a letter from a reader which I would like to share with you.
"Dear Lacksadaisy,
First of all may I say I love your blog, I treasure it like I treasure tomato sauce on my food and I put tomato sauce on everything even Christmas pudding. I was hoping you might be able to help me. Our son is a smart little six year old. Do you think this is an appropriate age to tell him Santa doesn't exist or should we leave it to the cluey little tacker to figure out in his own time?
Merry Christmas,
Belamy, England."
Merry Christmas Belamy SMACK! I just hit you in the face. SMACK, SMACK!! I just hit you again and now you're looking at me with the same sad confusion as a cartoon penguin who has just had his beaked smashed and he looks like he's gonna tear up a little. Why? Because you trusted me. You believed me to be the wise oracle of blogs. You thought I was nice, stunningly beautiful and stunningly smart. You believed that I would help you, not hit you in the face with a wet Christmas snapper from my mums fridge. Instead of helping you and spreading Christmas cheer I spread Christmas fish clamminess. That is exactly what you would be doing to your sub double digits, Stephen Hawkins of an offspring. He trusts you, relies on you to provide wisdom and magic and you want to hit him over the face with a cold truth snapper. Shame on you Belamy, shame. on. you.
Lets look at the facts.
1. Growing old is slow, painful and full incontinence, wars and digestive problems.
2. The movie Elf with Will Farrell is awesome and in that movie Santa exist and the Elf is happy.
3. No one has done long term studies as to the effects of lying to your children but I have a feeling that it's not that bad.
These and other well thought out factual suppositions conclude that you should not tell Belamy junior about Santa. In fact you should probably do your darnd-est to keep the fantasy alive for as long as possible. Even if it means dressing up in a red suit to visit your adult son in the middle of the night when he's away at school camp, or on his 21st birthday or once he turns 30, its Christmas eve and he's asleep with his trophy wife by his side and his triplets are in the next room. (Basically your son has triplets because his trophy wife has an IVF disaster. She has three at once and sadly loses her stunning figure... at least that means you no longer silently lust after your daughter in law and that can only be a good thing.) But I would like to stear this post away from you deviant sexual fantasies Belamy and focus on my Christmas message:
Christmas is the one time of year that it's ok to believe in fictional figures without being branded a lunatic, it says so in film.
Merry Christmas to all my readers,
I hope you get some of my mums trifle.... I've posted some to all six of you but you won't get it unless it's delivered by santa... and for that to happen you have to believe.... believe..... believe...
L.D xxx
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