The streets are adorned with ostentatious festive lights. The angelic voices of the Christmas choir tingles my auditory senses. Garish banners of Christmas sales are being displayed along the entrance of every store. It's finally time for me to don my Santa Suit once again.
I straighten my beard and inhale a huge breath of air. "HOHOHO. WHO. WANTS. PRESENTS!!!" Curious glances, bemused faces. Within seconds, children start sprinting towards me from all directions. They ambush me as though they are wanderers of the sea who have finally found shore. With great zeal, I draw out my gigantic bag of fastidiously wrapped gifts.
Despite their parents' attempts in persuading them to give way to one another, they brush each other aside aggressively to race for their gifts. Without a word of gratitude, they snatch the parcels out of my hands, uncouthly ripping them open. What breaks my heart isn't the fact that I'm not receiving a single "thank you" in spite of my hours and pounds. It is the disappointed sighs and disdainful expressions on their faces that makes it difficult for me to mask my crestfallen face.
I'm not frustrated, or even offended. Instead, my heart cries out to these little children. For the happiness that they can never buy. For the covetousness that burns in their hearts. For the gift of Christmas that they don't realise even exists.
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