I believe in Father Christmas

Eeeek! It’s only a week away!

Despite the fact that I'm working up until Christmas Eve, I'm trying to embrace the festive joy and celebrate the magic of Father Christmas.

While, as adults, we know that the man in the red suit is actually someone’s relative with an itchy false beard, it’s still utterly lovely to get swept up in the palpable excitement of any nearby young person.

I do wonder how long we’ve got before our daughter stops believing – she’s in her last year of primary school so I fear the worldly-wise sophisticates of secondary school may well put an end to it next Christmas. 

She's also an extremely logical young lady who has started to question quite a lot of the practicalities of the whole billions-of-presents-delivered-in-one-night concept.*

That time will inevitably come, but for the moment, it’s still this year and she’s still a firm believer.

And in a frankly frightening, confusing and unfair world, a little bit of belief that people (in red suits or not) can be good and kind is not a bad thing.

Whatever you’re up to this Christmas, whoever you’re with and whatever you believe, have a happy, healthy and peaceful one.

:: I believe in Father Christmas by Greg Lake

*Frightening how many lies we tell children while drumming into them how important it is to always tell the truth. I’m not sure how much distrust and/or damage we cause, but I’m hoping that ageing and common sense will overcome any feelings of betrayal. Either that, or all those Christmas pud sixpences are going to have to pay for some substantial sessions on the couch as an adult.

Doctorin' the Tardis

I've always been a bit of a geek.

Surround me with Terry Pratchett books, DC Comics or Judge Dredd mega-zines and put me in a Games Workshop and I feel very much at home.

But I have never felt quite so comfortable as during our family trip to Comic Con at the weekend.

We'd taken our Who-mad daughter on an early festive treat to be part of an evening audience with David Tennant and Matt Smith - arguably two of the best Doctors.

We dressed in character, we chuckled at dweeby references and we wished and wished to win a raffle prize that would get us on stage with The Doctor(s).

Sadly wishes weren't enough - and despite the massive temptation we stayed in our seats as I'm pretty sure running wildly through the packed room and launching ourselves at David and Matt would have been very much frowned upon.

But not winning didn't matter. The room was full of geeky-but-proud people doing their geeky-but-proud things and it all made for a lovely evening.

Having spent my younger years worrying about whether or not my interests were cool enough, it was so nice for my daughter to see that it is okay to like what you like.

If only I'd had a Tardis when I was 13 to be able to travel to that evening, it would have saved a lot of unnecessary fretting.

:: Doctorin' the Tardis by The Timelords (KLF)

Trip a little light fantastic

This may seem a faintly ridiculous thing to admit when there are so many bigger things to deal with in the shitshow that is MS; but I miss my heels. 

I really do.

My love affair with elevation was a long time coming - I was only allowed very sensible shoes as a child, I spent my teens in Doc Martens and my uni years in Britpop skirts and trainers.

But when I started my first foray into office wear in my early twenties, I fell head over, er, heels for the siren song of the stiletto.

I loved them all. Gravity defying heels in a huge variety of colours and designs. Row upon row of peep-toes, kitten heels, mules, wedges, court shoes, strappy sandals, ankle boots, calf boots, knee boots. All glorious, all colourful, all massively impractical.

I taught myself to balance on some insanely vertiginous styles. I made myself run on shoes that could topple stilt walkers. No heel was too high.

Then, MS.

The impact wasn't immediate, I still had a few good heel-wearing years left in me. I made it through some nights of non-stop dancing in my favourite spangly styles, I shimmied down the aisle in a pretty impressive pair and carried on pounding the office corridors in my three-inch courts.

But time, along with my MS, has since advanced. I trip over quite frequently and my balance is now too ropey to contemplate more than a few moments in my highest set and not much longer in the lower ones.

It came home to me just how much had changed last week when I managed to spectacularly - and publicly - over-balance in what I had thought were a safe pair of low, block-heeled boots.

It's rubbish. Heels make me happy - they lift not just my body, but my soul. They make me feel confident and elegant and a little bit grown-up.

And they remind me of a time when I didn't have to concentrate really, really hard to be able to wear them. Or, to be honest, do almost everything else.

I can't slip them on any more without wondering where the nearest chair/table/person/flower bed is to cushion my fall.

However, I can't bring myself to get rid of them yet, the minxy dignity-killers, so they sit lined up in my cupboards waiting for a little balance miracle.

Or even the chance to be invited to a sitting-down party. They'd be excellent at that.

:: Trip a little light fantastic by Lin-Manuel Miranda