Santy, I want to grow up to be free of cares. Can you arrange it?

Dear Santy,

That’s how we pronounce your name where I come from, with a “y”. To call you “SantA” in that world would sound false as “ta” for “thanks” or “Guinness” when you mean “a pint” or end a phone call with one lonely “bye”. And the way they’d be lookin at ya, wondering “Who does he think he is, Lord Muck from Ranelagh or an asylum seeker escaping a John Lewis/Budweiser/Coke Christmas ad?”

Not that I have anything personal against the first letter among equals in the alphabet. Then, must there be a reason “y”? (Hark! Is that a cryptic clue wandering in from next door?)

Anyhow, I was walking the other day (You, Santy, might consider doing that too!) when coming towards me was a happy little girl in her shiny new wellingtons with her happy young father. They were passing a puddle and she just jumped right into it. Plonk!

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Rather than reflect that this puddle was yet another sign of global warning and still more evidence that the end of the world is nigh, she jumped again, and stared at the splash she had created and the ripples that waved away from her shiny wellingtons to its farthest ends, at least six inches distant. She did it again, as her father laughed. And again.

[ In a Word ... Roscommon ]

Santy, it was then I realised what I wanted to be when I grow up. I want to be like her. Can you arrange it, along with world peace, freedom from famine, and an All-Ireland senior football title win for Roscommon? For Mayo too, even... sometime. (It’s Christmas!)? Okay, okay, I hear you... world peace and an end to famine might be easier to deliver. Still...?

You will have heard of what American writer Maya Angelou said: “I am convinced that most people do not grow up… We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies, and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias.”

[ Is the demise of the Irish pub upon us? ]

Okay, “innocent’', “shy”, and “magnolias” may be pushing it where I’m concerned, but you get the drift. Any chance I could have a puddle for Christmas? Just asking. Patsy.

Puddle, from Old English pudd , for “a small pool of dirty water”.

inaword@irishtimes.com