Iggle Piggle you think? Not in our house he's not. He's Mickey from Strabane and he's on the dole.

I lie to my children.

There, I’ve said it. What a shocking admission. This morning I brought Cáit to the doctor. Her blocked up sinuses were concerning her mother and causing Cáit at times to talk as if she had a clothes peg on her nose. More importantly it was causing pain.

On the way down I told her the remedy was a Schnozzlectomy. I had in mind a procedure where some sort of Dyson designed contraption would be inserted up her nose and the gunge and stuff removed.

Cáit of course didn’t believe a word of it. Not since I told her there was an elephant in a field up the road when she was wee. She doesn’t believe me. There was in fact an elephant one day in afield belonging to a zoo and it licked Leo’s food, snot and gunge covered bib. But no, she does not believe me.

In the surgery, I pointed to the blood pressure machine and told her that was the apparatus for the Schnozzlectomy but she didn’t believe me. Then when Dr James started up his printer to print the prescription I told her that was the other Schnozzlectomy machine. “No daddy, that’s his printer.”

When we were leaving she asked me what adenoids were. I told her they were little people that lived in her nose that shovelled bogies out of the way much as we would do with deep snow. She didn’t believe a word of it.

I then told her about the red ball bouncing up the street this morning. For some reason she did believe that, even though it is thoroughly unbelievable. I took her over to the house where it got stuck and it was still there.  Maybe that’s where the adenoids live.

But my lying has got me into bother. Treasa and Sorcha won’t let Angela read their story at bedtime. That is because I have been making up fantastical stories of late which have become so successful that they want more every night. This involves looking at the pictures in their books but telling a totally different story. Last week in a nativity book we made up a C & W song with a catchy chorus to sing every time the Stable appeared in the story. I even produced the geetar:

“In the Stable, In the Stable,

Jesus was born in the Stable,

With the donkeys and the rabbits…” etc.

It’s the Christmas #1 in our house.

Last night I was presented with In the Night Garden and told to “read your own story daddy.” So, one of the new characters – based on the creature formerly known as Iggle Piggle with his comfie blanket – is Mickey from Strabane who is on the Dole and is travelling up the Foyle to Derry to see about getting a job. Sorcha argued with me that he should be from Omagh but I explained that Strabane is the unemployment blackspot, not Omagh, sadly not a lie for once.

The rest of the story featured lies, lies and more lies. Occasionally in the past I’ve been badly caught out, because as with all lies, one leads to another. I told Peter that Japan had won a football match something like 79 – 0. He went and looked it up in some book with Leo and they immediately started quizzing me on the detail. The problems started when I couldn’t remember the name of the top scorer that I’d created.

Lying to your children. It’s compulsive. Great craic. Addictive. I’d highly recommend it. Particularly to Angela – then she could have the night shift back. Mickey from Strabane is a great fella altogether.

This morning outside school

A red gym ball blew up the street

And with it someone’s good intentions.

It came upon me suddenly

Bouncing redly up the road.

I trapped it with my right foot

Not sure what to do.

Should I put it in the boot

And take it home?

It wasn’t my gym ball.

As I stood talking to my companion

I took my foot off it.

Not my red gym ball I thought

And away it went again,

Bouncing maniacally

Off past the school.

A few minutes later, as I drove along

I wondered where it might have gone.

I spied it bouncing around the side

Of someone else’s house

Or maybe its own house.

Unfaithful red gym ball.

I wondered is the owner

As red as the ball

Blowing up the street.

And does she bounce as much?

Wind blows, rain falls. It’s

The coldest season.

Inside, firewood sparks and flames.

It truly is no place for the old. Grandparents tut tut at over indulged children; hungover parents stumble a bed having assembled a surfeit of toys and are awakened a couple of hours later by agog kids wide awake and wanting to know has Santa been yet.

Was it ever thus. Christmas isn’t wasted on the children or the young reveller. Once as a student I managed to get myself out 17 nights in a row. Later I remember spending a New Years eve in the American Bar at the docks in Belfast and looking forward to the next day and peace and wishing it was all bloody over.

Of course all of that had nothing to do with Christmas. We used to gather in MJ’s bar in Omagh. My best mate Brogy would display the results of his shopping for all to laugh at. Once he produced a melon baller he’d bought for his brother and his wife. His dad Liam was getting a kitchen roll holder. No doubt Liam did enjoy the thought -certainly we all did.

The alcohol infused evening would lead into night. Once after a festive bout in the Hogshead in Omagh we ended up at midnight Mass, blue bags a-clinking, us a-giggling and others a-disapproving.

Sometimes Christmas would go pear shaped, not tits up mind you. It’s not a season I associate with the females of the world – most Christmas liaisons conducted through a fugue of forgetfulfutility maybe a bit of mistletoe. That was then…. Besides, ’twas usually too cold and both parties had too many clothes for any real Christmas crackers!

Once on a class reunion in McElroys front bar Decky Coyle and myself demolished significant amounts of Bushmills and finished the job with half uns of Lagavulin Single Malt. Coyle puked. I didn’t. We spent the night at David McCormack’s house – wasn’t good. The next day I had one of the first of monster hangovers. It wasn’t really a hangover at all- that followed days later. At this stage you understand I was still full as a gypsy’s tit. The day after was horrendous. My life force felt replaced with ennui, nausea and cement. Aches and pains, gut in contortion and the agony of something simple but essential like light. I dunno how Shane McGowan does it.

We would go out on Boxing Night for more beer. Some may have ventured on Christmas night, I once caught on a girl who was allegedly going out with me out with another fella on Christmas Night. Boxing day though anything went. Hit the dancefloor and you would take some doll’s fancy or vice versa. Next morning the memories in your part may be hedgy enough but she would know she’d koorted a Christmas drunk.

During the run up to Christmas as a student was different in many ways, the old classic get your coat worked a treat up round Queen’s. Desperados one and all.

But the real craic at Christmas was in Omagh where we would persuade one another out 17 nights if we could. The craic was ninety, Decky Coyle would appear from Strabane, men would agree just one more night and the craic would follow.

It was wonderful. That was then, this is now, that was then….. but it was the best pure 100% craic we ever had. Don’t think I could stick it anymore but you never know.

‘I can see a better time/when all our dreams will all come true’