The Christmas period is conducive to the memories. The cold swept the plains around the village, and we went at night barely dropped at Christmas the company where my mother worked. For the occasion, the EC had reserved the ballroom at the faded plaster which had seen many events, and we commit ourselves, my brother and me in the middle of an alley lined with improvised chairs unfolded. There, sit with strangers and their families came to hear speeches and attend a laborious kind of a parade of thanks. We did not care a bit impatient, because tonight, Santa had to go! Yet we were far from the December 25, but none of us asked the question. We would see man in red.
A click was heard behind us. Airflow announcing that the door of the stage, in front, parted. A face, craggy and covered with a long white beard appeared. It was not Osama, but his cousin Northern Christmas. We did not have the balls, and courageously, each child was advancing toward him as he settled into a chair, facing us.
Like every year, we sat on his lap, he looked at us with a look drunk, and we whispered in his ear the perfect gift list. Then we handed an orange, a character chocolate and a toy for younger children. This time, it will be a truck.
The happy face, beaming, still dreaming, we joined the parents sitting in the back, show tarnished by the pillars of counters that were there for a beer, gasoline my future desires ;-) The EC had this Christmas something special, which is reborn each year as Christmas approaches. Childhood memories ...
Strangely, I think it was during one of these ceremonies, perhaps the last before my mother changes company that I knew instinctively that the Santa we saw there was not true ... That's true, finally, was perhaps a myth.
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