SINCE I no longer have any small children of my own, and there’s so far no sign of grandchildren, I need to rely on other people’s offspring to keep the magic of Christmas alive.

So on Christmas Eve, as has become tradition, I dressed up in my Santa Claus costume and set off on a tour of friends’ houses.

In my pocket was my magic notebook, full of notes supplied in advance by the parents of the children I was due to see: Had they been good? What had they achieved during the year? What would they be getting for Christmas etc And because I believe in developing my role each year, I took an additional prop with me this time – a bag of “magic snow from Lapland” to sprinkle on the children’s heads to test that the children had really been good. If it didn’t melt, it meant that they’d been little stars.

After magical encounters with Theo, Charlie, Francesca, Jenna, Isla, Jasmine and Alfie, my tour reached its climax in Newton Aycliffe, the home of adorable brothers Adam, six, and Daniel, four.

Santa settled down next to them on the settee and tested the magic snow from Lapland. It showed that both of them had been very, very good.

My magic book told me that Adam had been very kind to a little disabled boy in his class and had started playing for the school football team.

“Oh, that’s very good,” said Santa. “What position do you play?”

“Striker,” replied Adam.

“And do you have a favourite team?”

“Manchester United,” he said, quietly.

“Does Santa have a favourite team?” asked his dad.

This is a very tricky question for Santa so he thought about it carefully before answering: “Well, you see, Santa loves all the football teams all over the world, in every country.” Then, pointing to my Santa cloak, I added: “Mind you, I do have a soft spot for teams that play in red and white.”

“Like Sunderland?” suggested Adam.

Again, I paused and stroked by beard before admitting sagely: “Sunderland are very hard to love, Adam.”

My last chat of the tour was with the boys’ cousin Ellie, who was a bit shy. I referred to my magic book and said: “Oh, I see that you’d like a pet turtle, Ellie?”

“No, I want a tortoise,” she said, folding her arms and furrowing her brow.

Ellie’s mum looked at me and I looked at Ellie’s mum. I think the same question might have been racing through our minds: “How the hell is Santa going to swap a turtle for a tortoise at 8pm on Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, I see – I’ll have to have a word with the elves and see what we can do,” was all I could think to say.

Santa made his excuses and left with a final “Ho, ho, ho” and a swirl of magic snow.

IT is another tradition that I cook the breakfasts on Christmas morning. You may remember how, in trying to juggle six cooked breakfasts, I set fire to our posh new kitchen a couple of years ago.

Anyway, this year, at 8am on Christmas Day, I was presented with a “Breakfast Order Form” designed by my wife on her computer.

It was a complicated-looking spread-sheet, full of columns and boxes to indicate who wanted what: sausages, veggie sausages, bacon, eggs (scrambled, boiled or fried), beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread, and toast. I still ended up in the Christmas doghouse for not doing enough veggie sausages.

They can do their own flaming breakfasts next year.

TWO of my children, aged 22 and 23, went to a New Year’s Eve party with the theme Glamorous Animals.

One went as a penguin. The other, my only daughter, went as a skunk.

I think I’ve failed as a parent.

SO what was your worst Christmas present this year? Can you beat the key-ring with a miniature pair of pliers my 84-year-old mum gave me? No, didn’t think so. Happy New Year everyone.