Making a list. Checking it twice.

You can see the look in his eyes that says, “For the love of all that’s holy, save me!” …The kid looks pretty upset as well.

Nothing quite says ‘Yay, it’s Christmas!’ like a traumatized child who is having a cerebral meltdown after being abandoned with a jolly bearded maniac while his or her parent waves from a distance and yells, “Smile for Santa, Timmy, or I’ll give you something to really cry about, you snot-nosed little hooligan!”

Or, I don’t know, maybe that was just how Christmases went for me during my childhood? I still wonder why my Dad called me Timmy.

As it happens, I have many fond memories of soiling myself in festive terror during various seasonal outings, to the sound of people singing about White Christmases, and Dashing Through The Snow, and Frosty The Snowman. All of which simply added to the surreal experience, as I was born near the equator and grew up in Australia, the land in which Christmas Day is celebrated by moving as little as possible and bitching incessantly about the heat.

Over the years, I have come to suspect that the true joy of Christmas lies in reaching adulthood, so you can have children of your own on which to perpetuate the revenge of the Christmas Santa freakout.

I think these kids will agree: Scared of Santa: Scenes of Terror in Toyland – Telegraph.

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