A little voice pierces the thickness of my sleep. It is neither early or late, but I am groggy with a night spent awake and throbbing.

'Mamma! Father Christmas has been to my room! I have my presents there, on the floor!'

'Has he really? Oh, my sweet! Are they the ones you wanted?'

'I don't know. I have not opened them yet.'

He curls up next to me, the baby smell squeezing my nostrils and warming my heart.

'Don't you want to go and see what he brought you, then?' I ask.

'No...It's ok. I want to be here.'

Today, Pest n.2 chose a cuddle with me over the frantic ripping of wrapping paper and the obscene rituals of Christmas morning.

To my five-year-old, I am worth more than a little pile of gifts.

Thank you Father Christmas. That was a lovely present.