Different perspectives on the Crimbo. Santa lives. Of course he does. The boys and girls know this. Santa lives and he demonstrates that magic is real.

Mammy posted him the letter at the beginning of the month. It was addressed to the North Pole, where Santa has an army of elves, working minimum-wage jobs, who sort the mail, record the requests and magic the gifts into being.

There is no regulation of the working conditions for the elves because Santa is a benevolent employer, who would never engage in exploitation. He has even pledged that the reduction in the minimum wage won't kick in up in the Pole until next Christmas.

Santa himself is an old dog for the hard road. He must be ancient, yet he keeps slogging away, traversing the world on his sleigh. Quite obviously, he wasn't a politician or senior civil servant or he would now be retired on a bloated pension. Instead, he just keeps on keepin' on.

Santa lives. The evidence was there on Christmas morning. All the presents were magicked into life under the Christmas tree. The slice of cake mammy left out for him had gone. All that remained were crumbs, which must have fallen from his beard as he ate. Now they represent the glitter of magic. The glass of whiskey daddy left out is drained, but for a few drops, before he took off back up the chimney. No wonder Santa is fat as a fool if he eats cake in the home of every boy and girl he visits. No wonder he ho-ho-hos to beat the band if he's knocking back all that whiskey.

Some of the older kids may be suspicious, even cynical about the existence of Santa. But there is plenty of evidence to say that he does exist. And that means that Christmas is all about magic, and a sense of wonder, and what can be more exciting in a young life that has yet to collide with reality's harsh vehicles.

The years roll on, the magic fades, and before you know it, magic Christmas has been replaced by consumer Christmas. Yippee! Shopping, crowds, pushing, tearing, dragging, shoulder charging, horror mounting upon horror.

The consumer's crimbo really got into its stride in the years when the imposter known as the tiger was in full gallop. In those heady times, the anniversary of Christ's birth and the feast of St Stephen were set aside as days of rest, a time to pause, in between the Christmas shopping and the onslaught of the sales.

During those years of madness, the air was thick with frenzy. The pursuit of gift-giving was replaced with a demented notion that measured the occasion by the amount that was spent, rather than the thought that was invested in giving to loved ones. No one cared because it was all on credit, and weren't the Germans shelling out for it? Happiness is a credit card with a forgotten limit.

The concept of a 'bit of a present' reached its zenith. For the committed consumer, this meant going on safari for weeks on end to buy as many bits as possible to make up the jigsaw of a gift. It meant dispensing with manners in a crowd. It meant regarding shopping centres as battlefields, where only the fittest survived, where you required eyes in the back of your head to spot the latest and greatest gift. It meant losing your mind.

And then there was the Christmas itself to get over. How was it? "Peaceful. I didn't kill anybody." And on the 27th, the consumer rose from her bed and headed back out onto the killing fields to do some more damage, to buy and spend like there was no tomorrow, because tomorrow never comes when you're on the never-never. This year, the shops are even open today but the fever has receded. In our upside-down world, it is not the demented consumer who now elicits sympathy. Instead, it is the retailer, whose primary focus these days is not to fleece but to survive.

For some, Crimbo means primarily eating, drinking and making drastic efforts to be merry. More often than not this entails gorging on Christmas Day in the manner of a pregnant woman, dining for two, rather than one. It also involves drinking enough alcohol to render one comatose as soon as possible, particularly if the day is spent with siblings, in-laws and parents.

It is unnatural to have so much family psychosis under the one roof for a day, so inevitably old grievances will be unmoored from their hidden harbours. After that, the fare descend rapidly.

St Stephen's morning is then wrapped in sheepish grins and pretending you don't remember anything of the previous evening's proceedings. Still, there is little harm done to much beyond the cholesterol count. Hopefully.

There are others for whom neither magic, nor consuming, nor getting plastered can suffice at this time of year. The holiday season is one that must be endured, even magicked away. The pressure to rejoice, to be jolly, to be happy, weighs heavy on those for whom circumstance has dictated that this year it's not the season to be merry.

The empty chair at the dinner table of the bereaved will cast a dark cloud over some gatherings. There are others who have been sundered from their families, and their lonely station is accentuated at times like these.

This Christmas is unlikely to bring much joy for many whose circumstances have been severely altered by the recession. Anybody who lost a job during the year may pine for previous Christmases when meeting the material demands of the season was a manageable task.

Then there are those who dwell on the margins, either by choice or through circumstance. The magic of their childhoods has long vanished. With the pressure to rejoice all around, some just want the time to pass speedily on the way back to some semblance of normality.

It's a time of different strokes for different folks. 2011 is just days away, and it's back to the same old same old. Santa retreats into his cave. The bank begins preparing letters to demand what's to be done about the battered credit card. And some are happy that it's done and dusted for another year. Happy New Year. How was it for you?

mclifford@tribune.ie