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He’s happy enough to keep pretending and playing this community role-playing “Santa” thing, but he’s adament he doesn’t believe it really. But he’s still not sure where the presents come from.
It doesn’t seem to have occurred to him for a second that it might be his tightarse parents who actually shell out for lego.
Why no, I don’t know why he’s talking about it in May.
He writes his letters with serifs. Pointy serifs that could take someone’s eye out.
He writes and writes and writes, copying everything he can lay his hands on, he picks out letters he recognises. He delivers the mail to us and knows who the letters are for. All these words make my heart sing. What is motherhood if not a licence to use and abuse a corny cliche?