Something strange happened to me yesterday. For a moment I thought my eyes had morphed into those multiple lenses of the housefly with compound vision. Because I kept seeing Santas. Yes, Father Christmases in the plural…one after another in the street, and when I arrived at the pub for the afternoon poetry workshop, there were a whole host of red-jacketed fur-trimmed young men (and women) sitting at multiple tables. Yes, I have finally cracked, I thought, until I remembered that it had been the Christmas charity fun run in Lincoln that morning, and everyone was recovering…good excuse for multiple beers, oh, and that poem about a host of golden red-faced daffodils Santas…