Santa, for Christmas I'd like you to have a word with the Mothers' Union

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/nov/06/santa-christmas-lists-mothers-union

Version 0 of 1.

Dear Santa,

This is the second letter I have written you this year. Mummy made me tear up the first one. I was going to ask you for a new computer, a robot butler that will tidy my room while I'm out, this season's St Johnstone kit, Savage Murderbastard 7 for the Xbox, a new bike and a Nadine Dorries Jungle Bugmuncher Action Figure (the one with swivelling eyes.)

But now Mum says I'm not allowed to make a list for Santa any more. She's in something called the Mothers' Union and apparently Reg Bailey and Rowan Williams – who I have to tell you are the oddest looking mummies I've ever seen – have said that Christmas lists should be banned by parents. I must confess, Santa, my first thought was that instead of asking you to bring me lots of lovely toys, I would just ask you to send a posse of elves round to visit those guys and kick seven jingling bells out of them with pointy little boots, but I'm a good boy so I won't do that, and I'm not going to cry or pout either. I know you hate that stuff.

Instead Santa, I'll take this opportunity to thank you for the Pop-up Guide to Social Research and Statistics you kindly left in my stocking last year. It certainly came in useful in keeping Granny quiet on Boxing Day although it hasn't helped much in making sense of the polling data that inspired this new commandment. For example, if 44% of parents have felt pressurised by a child to buy a present they can't afford, and 52% say they haven't, is that a good thing or a bad thing? How do the numbers compare to 10 or 20 years ago, or to other countries? Can you tell me, Santa, because, frankly, I'm buggered if I know.

I've been writing to you for a long time now, Santa. I wonder if you remember the time more than 40 years ago, when all I asked you for was a pot of strawberry jam? I never told you about the silent tears when you left me a jar that was identical to the delicious, natural, home-made preserve that spilled out of Mum's kitchen cupboard from June until Mould every year. You see, what I really wanted was a jar of luminous red chemical gel, ideally with a racist logo on the label. I should probably have been clearer about that at the time.

So I probably never thanked you for that particular gift, but I do now. You taught me a valuable lesson about the true meaning of Christmas that day. I learned that Christmas is not about expensive toys, gifts and shiny things. Christmas is not about receiving, it is about disappointment – crushing, heartfelt, soul-scarring disappointment.

As you know Santa, I'm a dad myself now, with two rumbustious boys of my own. Nothing bonds us together more as a family than when our 10-year old stomps into the room and breezily asks for an iPad for Christmas. Mum and Dad will lovingly tilt our foreheads towards each other, check the other's expression, raise an eyebrow, look at our son adoringly then laugh uproariously in his face.

Santa, we both know that when you sneak into their bedrooms once a year you snaffle the mince pie and whisky, feed Rudolph half a carrot, then fail dismally to deliver everything on their lists. It's OK, don't feel guilty, their Christmas is not spoiled. They are far too busy being disappointed by all the crap you did bring to remember the things you missed.

So perhaps you could do us all a favour, Santa, before your busy season gets going. Just pop down the chimneys of Bailey and Williams, and have a quiet word. Explain that learning about realistic expectations and the art of negotiation is a key lesson in life, and suggest they use their influence to remind parents that it is OK to say no, with or without a Christmas list. They'll listen to you, they envy your beard. As for me, I'll cope without a bulging pillowcase full of non-biodegradable junk. But if you could see your way to the Dorries doll I'd be ever so grateful. I've already bought the voodoo pins.

Festively yours,

Ally (aged 45¾)