How old were you when you stopped believing in Santa? 6? 9? Maybe you made it to double figures? Could you imagine still believing aged 49? Still having that same feeling of wonder as you go to bed on Christmas eve and immense feeling of excitement on Christmas morning.

That is how it is for my uncles, Andrew and David. They are twins who were born with special needs that have meant they have not developed past a mental age of around 10. For me growing up it was like having uncles who turned in to cousins who are now more like nephews.

Until her recent death, they were looked after by my grandma (Nanna to me). Whilst my favourite memories of my other grand parents are probably of my childhood spent in their garden, at the canal fishing or in my granddad’s shed I was closest to my Nanna through my teens. She learnt to drive late in life and would often pick me up from the train station on my return from uni. Whatever the trip, we never went home the same way we came. She loved to chat over a cup of tea and hear about my life in Leeds.

Once I could drive I did my best to return the favour with trips to the shops usually making sure to find an alternative route home. One of my favourite road trips was bringing Nanna, Andrew and David up to Leeds to see my house. It was quite a round trip and Nanna didn’t find it easy especially to get up my steep stairs. But she always talked about my little terraced back-to-back and I was so happy she saw it before she died.

Andrew and David loved that day as well, and still talk about it now. They also talk about a return trip, something we must do in the new year.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to live for 49 years remaining so young, curious and in some ways vulnerable. Both Andrew and David have had to do a lot of growing up since Nanna’s death and for David in particular it has brought a new sense of independence. And yet, for all the growing up they continue to do, and no matter how many times they hear otherwise, they still believe in Santa.

“Take what you want, the rest is going in the bin”. Since having my own house I’ve heard these words a few times as the parents go through yet another clear out.  You know the types of stuff I’m talking about; old exercise books, sports equipment, certificates & trophies.

On one of my most recent trips I was handed a folder full of scripts that took me back to my first days of senior school. I was never to be found on the stage. Instead my expertise (read geekery!) was employed as a sound engineer and stage manager on a number of productions.

I loved the thrill of cueing the lights and sound for the shows. Punctuating the on stage dialogue with my whispers of “standby SQ1, go LXQ4” over the intercom.

Our first production was Grease, a pretty risqué choice for a school and, for some reason, I ended up with the drama teacher’s copy of the script, complete with a note to the head teacher:

“I’ve highlighted the bits that I think may cause offence or that have a focus on smoking”.

I will never forget arriving back stage at the end of the first night. Sandy was played by the most attractive sixth former in school. She was revered by all the boys and for this 12 year old boy she was up there with Olivia Newton-John herself.  I arrived, just off stage right, radio mic in hand and walked straight in on her as she was getting ready for the leather trousered finale! She didn’t bat an eyelid as I went bright red, left the mic on the table and made a swift exit, stage left. For the rest of the performances I was at the back of the room manning the mixing desk. Probably for the best.

We met in the departure lounge at Heathrow airport. I still tease her about how she greeted me straight away with a kiss (albeit on the cheek) and she likes to remind me how hungover I was. Next stop Pensylvania and three months at Camp Tioga as camp counsellors.

My intention before Camp America was to go home to Derby on my return but something told me that Leeds might be worth one more shot. It just happened to be where Rache was studying.

It only took me five years to finally pop the questions at Rookery Hall in Cheshire. Luckily for me she said yes! The hotel was beautiful and the service was just what was needed for a nervy fiance to be, trying to keep a secret! I left the camera bag at home so here are a few pictures captured on Rache’s compact.

She’d have killed me if I’d proposed in front of lots of people so the hotel kindly arranged for us to enjoy a glass of bubbly in the gardens. Here are a few picture of the scene of the crime the next morning!

I decided to propose on the weekend of Rache’s birthday and so on the Sunday we got together with friends and family for a Sunday lunch and double celebration.