Although my mom doesn’t really like it when I hang my letter for You on our fridge, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas if I didn’t write it. It’s something that I am crazy about. Paradoxically, the older I get the more I want to believe that You exist and that You will bring me anything I asked You for in my letter which is always carefully lettered and adorned with tones of colourful glitter. And although I am not a little girl anymore, I’ve done some naughty things and maybe I deserve nothing but a stick, this year I also write a letter for you. I write and I am as happy and excited as a child full of hope that thanks to a lovely scribbled piece of paper he will find a gift of his dreams underneath the Christmas tree. The problem is that my wishes are now at the same time more and less demanding than a pink fluffy unicorn (which, well, I still haven’t received).