Dear Santa,

Sorry if I’m a little tardy with my letter. I’m usually on the money with timekeeping, but have been preoccupied with recent events on the home front, more of which later.

No doubt, you’re run off your shiny black boots right now but if you’ve time for a cup of tea, and a choc goldgrain, you might run your twinkling eye over this.

Firstly, I’ve finally let you off the hook for never bringing me a train set as a kid. From five to 12, as you may recall, I wrote every year, pleading for a shiny Hornby Set, complete with red engine, only it never arrived.

It was why I stopped writing to you in my teens, which you probably noticed.

I was angry, I admit, but it dawned on me later that you probably only had so many train sets to go around and there were lots of kids worse off than me.

I always had a roof over my head, a fire in the hearth, a turkey on the table, and a sock bulging with fruit and some pennies; others weren’t so privileged.

Even so, it took a while for you to work your way back into my good books. For a few years there, your rival, God, was tapping me on the shoulder. Every Sunday, and on days of obligation, I served as altar boy in St Gabriel’s, where I felt increasingly drawn to a life of service in the cloth.

At 18, with a useless Leaving Cert, it was a toss-up between the seminary or the ship to Liverpool; but for the aul' fellah pulling strings in CIE, I might have ended up in a confessional rather than a cabin.

Anyway Santa, it took me a long time to get me head around that train set, especially now when I hear that Barry’s Tea ad on the radio. Each toot prompts a tear, as I think of me Ma and Da, and all they did for me.

I’ve also moved on from your dress sense, as red and white are the two colours I dislike most in sport. As a fan of Everton and the Dubs, I’d be a lot more comfortable seeing you in blue; instead, you wear the colours of the infidels from Anfield and Old Trafford.

You don’t even have a change strip, for away games, something neutral like green. Tsk, tsk. Anyway, I don’t want to get your dander up, especially not at this most wonderful time of the year.

You’ve already received a couple of letters from these parts, you’ll see them in the ‘Clontarf, Dublin 3’ section. One is signed neatly by my daughter, Aoife, the other is an illegible scrawl, but it’s from my son, Oisín.

The names are associated with Irish folklore and legend, something you know all about. You’ll notice that neither has asked for a train set, rather an iPhone and a Tablet. At six years of age! What’s the world coming to?

Whatever you can do, I’d appreciate it. They are good kids, mannerly and well-spoken – they’d make excellent workers if there was ever an elves’ strike.

Low ebb

I’ll have everything ready for your arrival tomorrow night. The fire will be swept clean, the milk and bikkies in place, and some carrots for the hard-pulling reindeer.

(I had been leaving out a can of Guinness for you but Aoife was worried last year you might be driving a sleigh under the influence, hence the switch to Avonmore).

And now, for my own request.

At 57, my great passions are gambling, guzzling and gorging myself on sport – not exactly a Holy Trinity of propriety, I admit.

You’d probably think I’d like a few winners at Leopardstown and Kempton over Christmas, six points for Everton against Newcastle and Stoke, or perhaps a slab of stout?

Not a bit of it. My request is more delicate, it’s a matter of the heart. My wife Angie is at a low ebb right now. She’s knee-deep in chemotherapy for breast cancer.

She’s as bald as a billiard ball, exhausted and quite miserable of mood. To her, one wretched day tumbles into the next, and she can’t see a way out of her misery.

Privately, I’m scared out of my wits as Angie is my rock, my best friend, mother to our kids – never mind being the chief bottle-washer about the house.

Negative thoughts

I try to chivvy her along but she’s getting down on herself, and mumbling negative thoughts, which scares the bejaypurs out of me.

She needs a Christmas pick-me-up, and I reckon you’re the man. It’s not about a fancy train set, a cup of Barry’s tea, or any other childhood memory.

No, I’m looking for something small, personal and that comes wrapped in a wee box – the gift of hope. If that’s under our tree on Friday morning, all will be well in the world.

I’d give anything for Angie to be back on her feet again and if anyone can make that happen Santa, it’s you.

Festive regards,

Vinny