“She’s just a fig of your imagination,” Giselle tells me.
At eight years old, the girl can’t even spell properly, but already put down roots as one of nature’s cynics.
Her bark is worse than her bite, of course. On Christmas Day, she’s just as excited as anyone to unwrap the gifts that have unexpectedly appeared during the night.
“Did you plant these?” she asks, suspicious.
But no, none of us have.
How do I tell her? All you need is to make a little leaf of faith.