There are two types of people in the world. Those who hunt for their Christmas presents and those who wait for Father Christmas like good little children. I was always a hunter.
As a child, I was a huge pain in the bum. Any bag that came into the house from November onwards was surreptitiously searched. If goodies made it past my initial search then a full house sweep was arranged. I would venture into cupboards, climb wardrobes and look under cushions. I was usually successful. So successful that mum took to leaving presents with neighbours so I couldn’t find them.
One year she was an unwitting collaborator. I was helping her with the housework while hoovering she moved the bed to reveal a Day to Night Barbie and her Home and Office. I have never had a happier day hoovering.
She did best me one year by leaving my gifts under a pile of dirty washing. I’m sorry to report she gloated on Christmas day. I am even sorrier to report I would have done exactly the same thing. I wasn’t as bad as my cousin who tried, and very nearly succeeded, in trapping Santa. There was a lever and pulley alarm system and Father Christmas had to be on his game with that kid.
As an adult, I am grateful for an attic with a ladder to make gift hiding easier. Beware though if a family member wants to help Father Christmas get the gifts down, make sure they are not too squiffy, as it can sound like a sleigh landing on the roof and the kids may wake up. There is nothing worse than making sure Santa is safe, holding on to a ladder and trying to hook your foot through a door handle to stop excited children escaping on Christmas Eve.