I can't remember when I stopped believing in Father Christmas. Possibly I'd spotted the signs of Grownups Telling Stories all along - there certainly wasn't a traumatic Death Of Santa. I know I knew he didn't exist when I was six, because I remember trying to work out whose handwriting it was on the letter I'd received 'From Father Christmas' with my presents. I guessed that it was my grandma with cunning disguised writing, but in fact it was our next-door neighbour. The following year I wrote the letter for my sister, which must have been a bit of a clue for her, unless she really thought that Father Christmas writes like a seven-year-old with particularly wobbly handwriting.