December. We’re in the line up for the ferry, creeping hopefully downhill.  Outside, a pewter sky.   Rain falls in fat, satisfying drops; the wipers drag them across the screen and the fan works overtime trying to disperse the moisture from our breathing.  I’m thinking about nothing much at all when from behind, my daughter, aged 8,  asks whether I sometimes have the feeling that right now might be a dream,  and how do we know when it is or isn’t?

            ‘I mean, is this real?’ she asks as the rain drums hypnotically on the roof.

            Sometimes it’s hard to tell.  Long periods of time seem utterly surreal. Even when they don’t, you could still be imagining it all. You could be imagining an ordinary rainy day and me telling you, ‘don’t worry, of course we really are here together’.  Our brains form images of the world; the pictures and the sounds are just waves and particles before we process them… we give it a form, but how much of it do we actually make up? Do we make each other up too? Ourselves?

            ‘I don’t think anyone has yet managed to prove that we exist,’ I tell her, as we squeeze onto the Skeena Queen, the last but one vehicle allowed. The siren blares out, painfully loud.  I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face her.  We clasp hands, mine cold, hers warm.

            ‘But I could be imagining it, imagining you being with me in my imagining! It’s kind of interesting –‘my daughter says. Despite the advantages (think of that entire one could dismiss as a bad dream!)  I do find this a very lonely proposition and, despite the lack of proof, defiantly cling to the notion of the people I love being real; then out of fairness, I have to admit the rest of the world as well - but she is leaning forward in her seat, forehead furrowed, eyes ablaze, and now is not the time to trouble her with my views.  ‘When I am a scientist,’ she continues, ‘I will find out the answer, one way or another. But –‘her face falls, ‘what about Christmas?’

            ‘Christmas!’ my four year old son chimes in.

            ‘I wouldn’t like Christmas not to be real,’ my daughter says.

            ‘It is real!’  He tells her, tears springing to his eyes.