AT HOME WITH THE WALTONS: Better not toy with my wish list, Santa.

Byline: adam WALTON

DEAR Father Christmas: you're not actually my dad, are you? If you are, then this wish list of presents is the least of your worries. Once the Child Support Agency discovers that you haven't been paying maintenance on me for the last 33 years I imagine your bank account will become an awful lot lighter. I always wondered why you kept bringing me presents. It was guilt, wasn't it? And it would appear that you've been naughty in this respect more than once. When I think of all of the children who call you Father . . . well, you should be ashamed of yourself! Mind you, your diet of mince pies and sherry looks to be doing wonders for your virility, and it's cheaper than Viagra.

But I feel that we are getting off on the wrong foot, here. I should introduce myself. My name is Adam Walton. I'm 33 and a half, which might seem a little old to be bothering you with a Christmas letter, but I write in desperation. If the wife buys me the usual bag of doughnuts/pair of nylon socks combo this year, I might do something that I will regret for the rest of my life; like get in a huff and throw the doughnuts in the bin. Sorry, that's obviously an idle threat, and would never happen.

If you still think that it's impudent of me, a grown man, to be writing to you, an even more grown man who steals into children's bedrooms in the middle of the night, then I would re-read this last sentence until its meaning becomes absolutely clear. Remember, Christmas, we all know where you live; and, let's face it: you're not the most inconspicuous of fellows.

The police in these parts look very dimly on men who offer children gifts. One little tabloid leak and your long and profitable career would be over.

And, as I hope you are aware, work is not easy to come by for men of a certain vintage.

If, even after these subtle threats, you are still toying (ha! ha! - see, I have a sense of humour) with the idea of ignoring this letter and not bringing me what I want, purely on the grounds of age, then I would also like you to know about a little letter that I drafted this morning to the TGWU, that might - accidentally - get dropped into the nearest post-box if my list of presents doesn't turn up in full, under the Christmas tree, on the prearranged date. Elves have rights too, Mr Christmas, and the shoddy conditions in your grotto, alongside the inhumane working hours, would see the union shut you down within hours.

My last little nudge to ensure that you are compliant with my wishes involves PETA and the Anti-Fur Brigade. Believe me, Father, you do not want these people on your back. Your infinite sack filled with presents for the world's children will feel like a feather in space compared to that bloodthirsty lot once they see all of your ermine, and get to see the way you overwork Rudolph and his reindeer cohorts.

Just to prove that I'm not all nastiness and blackmail threats, I'll demonstrate what a good man I can be by offering the first olive branch. In 1977, you visited the Village Hall in Nannerch to give out slightly disappointing presents to children in the grip of Star Wars fever. One of those children sat on your knee and gave your beard a nasty tug because they thought that you were Len Bennett, the village's resident, bearded artist. For years, you've probably been traumatised by that event; wondering who the perpetrator was, and whether they were going to strike again. Well, I was that innocent beard-puller, and I'd like to apologise. You can rest assured that it won't happen again if you bring me the presents detailed in the list below.

If you want to further cultivate this atmosphere of cordiality between us, might I suggest that you apologise for the microscope debacle of 1983.

I stated quite clearly in my letter that I wanted an oscilloscope, not a microscope! Maybe you got the letter the morning after your Christmas do, but I wasn't a happy bunny that Christmas morning, I can tell you!

A word of apology, or one of those mini-i Pods in metallic blue, would do much to repair the long years of hurt.

Before I get to my list, I would like to assure you that I have mostly been a very good boy this year. Although I will admit to getting a little plastered in Liverpool last night after my team's famous victory against Olympiakos - but nights like that happen so rarely, these days, that I feel confident in your forgiveness. Especially in light of the evidence above.

So, here are the presents that I want. I don't want any shoddy substitutions and I want them wrapped in Britney Spears wrapping paper. And use scissors to cut the Sellotape, not your teeth.

One bag of 10 warm, Tescos raspberry jam doughnuts nn One pair of white socks, nylon n One oscilloscope. I - in return - will keep quiet, and leave out a nice mince pie, and alcohol-free sherry. You are driving, after all.

Thank you very much: please pass on my regards to Mummy Christmas, Adam Thomas Walton.

CAPTION(S):

Santa ponders the damning evidence against him in the formal letter from A T Walton, Esq