I want to find the bastard
who told me, somewhat contemptuously,
that Father Christmas didn't exist.

I would also like to find the killjoy
who made me trade my Wendy House for a mortgage,
my Spacehopper for a hatchback
and my water pistol for a diplomatic tongue.

And, finally for all the other miserable cynics
who sold out to adulthood
I'd like to slap them, firmly,
around the face.

But more than anything else,
I would like to find, and warmly embrace,
the genius for giving us the mighty 'O'
and, from a purely female perspective,
why make do with quality
when you can have quantity too?