“Thank God that’s over.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, it’s bloody hard getting the right gifts. No one’s ever satisfied, although I must admit the drinking and the food’s not bad. I think next year I’ll give Christmas a big miss.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re Santa!”

Connell would deny writing this, if it wasn’t for the fact that his name is plastered all over it. His son, six years old, in a deeply reflective moment, said, “You know, everyone’s special.” And Connell, in a less reflective one, replied, “And you know, after Christmas everything’s on special.”