It was a sweltering January day like any other, in the Orange City Centre undercover car park. I had just stepped out of the vehicle when mum decided she wasn’t properly between the lines, so she readjusted the park and promptly ran over my foot.
Perhaps it was the dull throb of pain or the tyre mark on my shoe that put me in a particularly vicious mood. “Hey Mum. Is Santa real?”
“Of course he’s real!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Then why was there Angus and Robertson price tags on those books he gave me?”
“Even Santa has to go to the shops sometimes!”
“Look. Don’t tell your sister!”