Every year, I develop a guilt complex when it comes time to tell my children that a fat, old man is going to fly all around the world in one night bringing toys to every child on the planet via a sleigh pulled by reindeer.

My five year old can’t comprehend the physics involved – the sleigh would have to be huge to carry that many toys, but a giant airplane can only carry a certain number of people so how could eight tiny reindeer manage to pull a piece of machinery that by all rights shouldn’t be able to achieve lift off without the engine of an A380?

He does, however, understand that if he doesn’t stop hitting his brother and get into the bath right this minute, Santa Claus isn’t going to bring him any presents. I cringe every time I say the words, but that line only works between the 20th and 24th of December, so I’ve got to get what mileage I can.

I’d go the route of some practical parents and keep the myths to a minimum, but I’m reminded of the night I first watched Peter Pan on television. I was maybe six years old, but when Tinkerbell was dying and Peter looked directly into the camera and told us to clap our hands if we believed in fairies, I didn’t believe that clapping would make a difference.

Hadn’t my mother told me a thousand times that what we see on television is make believe? So when Tinkerbell took that mortal blow, there was nothing we could do but cry.

Until, that is, my mother said, with all sincerity, “Well, girls, clap!”

That was all it took. If my mother – who gave us vitamins and broccoli, the most sensible person on the Earth – could believe in fairies, then maybe we could help. So we clapped furiously and by a miracle, Tinkerbell was saved.

Call it lying, but if you can’t believe in fairies when you’re six, when can you?

Laura Fulton