THIS would be the last Christmas we’d be doing stockings. That’s what my wife said. Definitely. She was adamant.

Every year, since they were toddlers, she’s meticulously collected quirky little gifts, crammed them into stockings and we’ve waited until the dead of night to tie them to their bedroom doors. And every year, they’ve burst into our room at ridiculous o’clock to show us what they’ve discovered in their stockings before we’ve all ventured downstairs to open the main presents.

But this Christmas would be the last. The ritual had run its course. All good things have to come to an end. That’s what my wife said. Like I said, she was adamant. The “kids” are 26, 24, 23 and 19 now, and the eldest has just become a dad himself, so it was reasonable to assume that I’d get a decent lie-in on Christmas morning.

I woke up when my phone started pinging. It was a text from my mum, telling me that there was a really good Christmas carol concert on the radio. It was 6.30am. Yes, that’s right, 6.30am. Why were they even broadcasting a Christmas carol concert at 6.30am? I demand an Ofcom inquiry. “Mum, it’s only 6.30am,” I texted back. “Don’t worry, they’re repeating it at 10am,” she replied. I didn’t switch the radio on. I turned over and went back to sleep. Or at least I tried.

By 7am, the “kids” were in our room, making lots of noise about what they’d discovered in their stockings – apart from the eldest, who was in his own house with new baby Chloe. Jack, the 23-year-old, burst in dressed as a pirate, complete with eye-patch and waving an inflatable cutlass above his head. “Let’s have a fight, Mum,” he shouted. And so my wife joined in, with an invisible sword.

I thought back to the time when Jack was a little boy and he’d had to wear an eye-patch to correct a “lazy eye”. He hated it with a passion and I’d had to cajole him by telling him he looked like a “cool pirate”.

Now, here he was, in our bedroom aged 23, putting my sleepy eyes to the test by having a pirate fight with my wife at 7am on Christmas morning. “I think these are the best stocking-fillers we’ve ever had,” chirped up his 24-year-old sister.

The pirates having fought to a standstill, and with quirky little gifts scattered over our bed, they ran downstairs in search of their main presents. “So that’s the last year we’ll be going through all of that,” I said, as my wife and I followed them. “We’ll see how it goes,” she replied. “If I see any funny stocking-fillers to buy, we might do one more year.” That’ll be the last. Definitely.

The things they say

AS has become tradition, I donned my Santa Claus outfit on Christmas Eve and visited the houses of friends with suitably aged children. At Croft-on-Tees, near Darlington, I met a little girl called Jenna. “And what would you like Father Christmas to bring you this year?” I asked in my best Santa voice. “A pig,” she replied. “A real pig.” “Well, the thing about pigs is that they make a terrible mess – even worse than reindeer,” I explained, softly. “Well, can you manage a stuffed one?” she sighed.

THANKS to Linda Smith, of Darlington, for telling me about the question her four-year-old great niece Hollie asked when her mum Claire was pregnant. “Mummy, are you going to Bethlehem to have your baby?” asked the little girl. “No, Hollie, I thought I might give Darlington Memorial Hospital a try,” said Claire.

BECKY Ketley, of Newton Aycliffe, has been in touch to tell me about her friend, Alison, being out in the winter weather with her little girl Maddison. “You’re cold aren’t you, Mam,” said Maddison. “I can tell because you’ve got those little ducks.” Naturally, Alison was a bit confused. “What ducks?” she asked. “No, not ducks. I meant goosebumps,” came the reply.