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Christmas is nearly here, so last night I pulled out the measuring tapes from the children’s memory boxes and managed to convince them to stand still for long enough to measure them and get an answer to that important question: What do you want to be when you grow up.

There was a theme to this year, Alfie wanted to be a dinosaur hunter, and Esme wanted to be a Tyrannosaur. 

So that’s not going to work out well for one of them.

Miss Olive squawked and pointed emphatically at the book I was using for support, so I’m pretty sure her answer was either a house, a midwife, or a birthing woman.

Our previous attempt at a Christmas tradition was a little less successful in so much as we still don’t have a photo of all three children in the same room as the big fat man with the long white beard.

I think Keith’s expression says everything you need to know about how well this went. 

Hey, if I walked round a corner and was confronted by the clown from IT, I think I’d be hiding behind the nearest person I could find as well. 

Santa is a character in our house, he doesn't bring gifts, he doesn't judge their behaviour and he doesn't send some creepy little side kick to spy from the safety of a shelf either. Characters aren’t supposed to make the leap into real life. 

Except Elsa, if you ask my daughters she is allowed to come round any time. In fact, if she’d like to move in with them, that would be just dandy.

So we make the effort to visit a grotto, with much the same attitude as we would an amusement park, and this year, we spent a nice few minutes discussing with Santa what we wanted this year (apparently a nice calm day out with the family is too much even for Santa) before heading off to lunch.

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