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I live in a neighbourhood where a certain day of the year, you can be walking down the street, quietly minding your own business, having been to the store to buy cereal and bananas and see this

And this

And if that wasn’t plenty disturbing, there will also be children with alarmingly large and furry ears

It’s a sign. Not that you’re going bonkers – although, you’d be forgiven for jumping to that conclusion – but that someone important is coming. Important enough to get a police escort

And be accompanied with a cheerful, yet oddly stress-inducing, warning

What else but the Santa Claus Parade? My favourite sighting from this year was watching a mother and her teenaged daughter. The daughter, being about 14 years old and at the height of that age where your parents are horribly embarrassing, stood far enough away from her mother to maintain her cool factor. When the sounds of cheering throngs started a bit down the street and the mother lifted up their aging Cocker Spaniel so it, too, could see Santa, the girl moved next to them, her letter to St. Nick firmly clutched in her hand and started jumping up and down a little, completely oblivious to any necessity for cool, overwhelmed by excitement. And that’s why I go every year. For moments like that.

It’s official. The magic’s here.