THIS is an incredibly difficult column to write this week.

We’re going to be talking about Father Christmas. There are theories that he does not exist. If you do not subscribe to these theories, then you shall be better off reading no further.

I say it is difficult because I have a seven-year-old daughter who very much believes. That the dull thuds she could hear on Christmas Eve were, in fact, the rails of Santa’s sleigh landing on our roof, and not her mother and father shambling down the stairs with two massive holdalls filled with presents.

I can talk about it here with some confidence that she will not read it. That’s not to say this column’s audience is limited – I have had positive feedback from at least two people, one of which completely unrelated to me – but my daughter is not interested in newspapers. I can understand that. I have no interest in Moshi Monsters. We’re all different people.

So I can get away with how Christmas really plays out in our household.

I was seven years old when I stopped believing in Father Christmas. It wasn’t a loss of faith as such, but incontrovertible proof. There was a shadowy figure at the bottom of my bed that was neither Father Christmas nor a burglar, who announced themselves by saying “go back to sleep, son” in my mother’s voice.

That, surely, is proof enough. Now, there could be other theories. Maybe it was a burglar, who instead of stealing items, was returning them to a pillowcase hung from the foot of my bed. And maybe that reformed burglar looked and sounded just like mam does. But it was fair to say I smelled a rat. Seven-year-olds have more inquisitive minds than CSI agents, once they catch a scent, you’re on a loser.

Upon learning this news I was neither upset nor let down. In fact, I was relieved. Having Father Christmas come once a year was a massive faff. I had to tidy my bedroom before he arrived, give him one of my mince pies and a glass of milk that I could have had myself. There was also an expectation that I should be well-behaved at all times because Father Christmas is always watching.

Even at seven, I thought that was a bit creepy.

So learning that it was, all along, my mam who bought, paid for, wrapped and laid out my presents felt a little better.

I had wanted to be a journalist ever since I was around that age. My dad was an accountant and my uncle worked for a newspaper, and I was never going to handle numbers – so journalism it was for me.

Journalists are nosey, and they also like to gossip. So, the revelation that our family home was not subject to a visitation from a rotund fellow dressed in red had to be retold.

Tthe first person I relayed the story to was my brother. He didn’t take it as well as I expected. In fact, there were tears, stamping of feet – basically an almighty strop.

You would expect such a reaction when breaking the news to a younger sibling, but the truth was that my brother was 12 at the time. The fact my mam managed to get away with it for years without him noticing says as much about mam’s ability to sneak around a house unnoticed – “like creeping Jesus”, she used to blaspheme, proudly – as it does my brother’s complete lack of awareness.

The day will come when my daughter will rumble us. We’ve had a couple of close calls where we’ve had to lie our way out of the situation in order to protect the myth. But she will find out sooner rather than later, and hopefully she will find it as much a relief as I did.