Well, not Santa himself. But parents.

A new report, A Wonderful Lie, writes that through the annual bribery of “be good or Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents”, kids believe their parents and do their bidding.

When that magical myth is broken, they start to question what else is an untruth.

Kids are as curious as ever, and Google is more natural to them than a pacifier, so it’s any wonder the Santa charade still exists.

Still, I would not trade my blissful years of Santa belief for anything.

For some reason, my parents, who don’t subscribe much to commercialisation, store-bought greeting cards or religious holidays in general, went to great lengths to continue the festive fraud.

I grew up as the only child in the household, so maybe they had nothing else to distract themselves with.

Or maybe they just had too much fun laughing at my expense – I’ll ask them over Christmas lunch this year.

We lived rurally, with a dirt driveway and dirt road.

Every Christmas morning, I’d race outside to see the sleigh marks in the dirt.

There were boot prints – massive boot prints – I’d even drag out Dad’s gumboots to compare the size.

Santa’s feet were way bigger.

On Christmas Eve, I’d leave out carrots for the reindeer. Except Rudolph. I thought he got too much attention.

Sure enough, in the morning, the carrots would be gnawed to stumps.

And as was a ritual, before it bed time came around, I’d leave my note for Santa, complete with a sweet treat and some sort of fancy Baileys concoction.

It all fell apart one year when I got out for bed to get a glass of water, and saw Dad smacking his lips as he delved into Santa’s special drink.

Tears, so many tears. There were even more tears when I found out there was no more Baileys to recreate the drink that was drunk.

Looking back, this was the night that the Santa charade began to unravel (thanks, Dad).

It was a natural part of growing up, like losing your first tooth or learning to ride a bike.

Yep, learning that your parents have been lying to you is right up there with childhood milestones.

I wasn’t hurt or angry when the full truth sank in.

Even now, I kind of understand why they did it, and kept it up.

It must have been fun, setting up the sleigh marks in the driveways and stamping out the foot prints (whose boots were they, by the way?).

I look back on those Christmas mornings with fond memories, knowing how much effort my parents put into bringing a smile and spark of magic to my life.

In a way, I almost pity the new generation of children who might not grow up with the Christmas Eve awe, straining against sleep in the hope to hear Santa shuffle down the chimney.

Is there anything wrong with never embracing the Father Christmas facade? Probably not.

But is there anything wrong with make believe, with storytelling, with creating that world of wonderment? I don’t think so.

But don’t listen to me, I was lied to as a child.