ONE ANCIENT FAT MAN

I'm a little happier today - though according to the news, we're all going to get taken over by robots. That's what Stephen Hawking thinks anyway. I say, take it with a pinch of salt. It wasn't that long ago he was claiming England could win the World Cup with a 4-4-2 formation. Besides, I thought his field of expertise was black holes and not in fact, all of popular science (as some people seem to think). Bless him.

The Christmas feeling continues. Some burly men with tape measures came in to work today and put up a fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree. It is enormous, covered with silver and blue sparkly stuff and baubles. A giant five pointed star sits at the top, poking up above the lobby like an ironic communist salute. I chuckled as that thought brought me right back to the tune of O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum or if you prefer, Keep the Red Flag Flying.

"Aw, how old is yours?" asked one of the receptionists in the kitchen.

"He's eight," said Gemma, the other one.

"That's a nice age. And does he still believe?"

"Oh yes, he still believes."

"Well, I remember mine... you know, years ago, asking me all sorts of questions about how he could be real, visiting all those people in one night, eating all those mince pies. What about eskimos? They haven't got no chim-e-ny, he asked once. Can you imagine?"

I skirted round them to the fridge, clutching my cup in one hand and the milk in the other.

It's a funny old religion, this. It seems to depend on faith in one ancient fat man who breaks into your home on an annual basis using what can only be described as the least practical, most dangerous and silliest point of entry. Meanwhile, you dutifully present him with his ritual offering (an unusual sacrifice of nibbles, milk and sherry) and he, the ancient fat man, in return, leaves a small selection of gifts in one of the oddest places imaginable - inside one of your socks. Then presumably, covered in soot and bruises, with his belly swishing and curdling like an old butter churn, he rides off in a getaway vehicle that could almost have been designed with the specific purpose of drawing attention to itself.

I remember being pleased and relieved that the lovely things I'd been given had come from people who actually loved me and not some magical bearded stranger who swigged Coca-Cola and winked through the telly. I think in a way, that early understanding taught me a lot about the difference between religion and relationship. My Mum (as did her Mum before her) used to call that feeling The Spirit of Christmas, which is of course a far more ancient and beautiful Spirit than a conglomerated cultural elf who's only bothered about you once a year at best, when you stuff him full of sugary snacks and milk. Now the real Spirit of Christmas, that is a flag that I'll keep flying.