Once upon a time there was a little blonde girl who believed in Christmas. Actually she believed in a lot of things, like fairness, and fairies and wishing on a star. She grew up and became disillusioned with most of the things she had believed in. Especially Christmas.
I'm not religious, I was raised in the church, but I grew up with too many questions, and my own opinions that the church couldn't answer. So I cut it loose. My mother still goes every Sunday, and while I've never said why I don't go, I think she knows. Christmas is for children, they believe in a jolly fat man in a red suit, I do the family present buying. For everyone, including myself. And then I wrap them up and open mine knowing exactly what I'm getting. This is a good thing in that there are no bad surprises, but then again there are no surprises at all. The day itself usually ends with everyone in a grumpy mood with each other, having eaten and drunk too much and had a row. It's a letdown. When you're little you don't see all of this, just fairy lights and wrapping paper, aunts and grandparents and new toys. It's sad to grow up and lose all your childhood beliefs and all the magic in life. Maybe one day I'll find some magic again, just not at Christmas.
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