"It was Christmas Eve, 1987. The cold war was beginning to emit its last frosty guffs, Thatcher had set her sights on gay children, and Michael Fish was keeping his head down. In England's deep south, my sister and I conspired in our bedroom. We are twins: she got the brains; I, being the eldest by a full six minutes, was to inherit the estates and titles, except there were none because my idealistic pinko parents had spent their working lives in public service."
"Earlier in the year, my sister had attempted to prove the existence of God. Worried about the health of her pet rabbit, Wodger, she penned him a letter pleading for help, with a rather clever Please tick if you have read this box at the end. It seemed foolproof but it turns out God ain't no fool. By morning, the entire letter had simply vanished."
"Despite the failure of her ruse, I felt inspired and decided on a target of my own: Father Christmas. I was to prove him real. Satisfied that my aim was catch-and-release only, not trophy hunting, my sister supported my plan. Aged eight, I was the proud owner of a robust and battle-tested whoopee cushion. I intended to place it at the bottom of my stocking, which would be hung at the end of my bed (top bunk privilege of the first born)."
On Christmas Eve 1987, amid late Cold War Britain and social tensions, twin siblings conspired to test supernatural claims. The sister attempted to prove the existence of God by writing a plea for help on behalf of her pet rabbit, which vanished overnight. The eight-year-old twin planned a catch-and-release experiment to prove Father Christmas by placing a battle-tested whoopee cushion in a stocking and positioning a Fisher-Price View-Master as a makeshift camera. The child expected a whoopee-triggered awakening to photograph Santa feeding reindeer in one of the toy's spooled images, but awoke to an unexpected sound instead.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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