In a moment we will tear off the next page of the calendar and the date will change. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for another year spent together in the virtual world of my blog. I hope that ahead of us there are many more articles and comments to come.

I would like to wish for all of us in the coming year that the world surrounding us will become less cruel and unpredictable, that people will be more smiley and friendly, and that we will all look more peacefully into the future together.

It is the end of something which for the last few weeks has been my point of reference for every activity – I feel like this on the first day of Christmas. New Year's Eve is not a day of portent for me. It is too short and consists mainly of an evening and night spent at a boisterous party or travel in the arms of Morpheus. In spite of appearances, it isn't the time for contemplation, reflection and summing up. During Christmas it is different.

Even if we have visitors or visit somebody else, we have time for a cup of tea or a glass of wine, and this moment is conducive to reflection. I associate the first day of Christmas with things ending. This isn't a negative concept. It is just that a lot of things end so that more things can begin.

Up to now everything has been "about Christmas". No matter how hard we try, the next family meetings won't be as spectacular as Christmas Eve. On 24th December my children will open the last small surprise in their Advent Calendar. My freshly cleaned home shines, and until the dust gathers in the corners again, I don't have to do anything. The madness of Christmas shopping and the build up to Christmas is behind us. We only have to eat everything, hoping that the fat will accumulate not only on the hips. For children, and some adults, the exciting wait for the guest with the white beard finishes with the impatient unpacking of gifts.

Every one of us has memorized one unique good and cheerful Christmas. For some of us it will be Christmas with our beloved family; for others Christmas with a long awaited and perfect gift by the Christmas tree. Somebody else will talk about an event which they have memorized in a unique and special way.

A few years ago on Christmas Eve afternoon I took from hospital my little two-day old son. I was not allowed to eat any cabbage, dumplings or fried carp. I remember the shining Christmas tree, my happy daughter by the mountain of presents, the remarkable atmosphere and the feeling that I had nearby all the most important people in my life. I would like to wish you all just such a magical Christmas.

Spend it as you like: with your whole family or only with your closest relatives; by a huge living Christmas tree or by a little artificial one; sitting at home at a richly covered table or at a posh restaurant. Let this time be for every one of you a moment of respite, rest and closeness.

Events from the last couple of months and days have caused many people concerned with their own security to look at their neighbours with distance and suspicion. Making new acquaintances and friends in a carefree manner has probably gone forever. One by one holiday destinations are disappearing from the tourist map because they are not safe anymore. Soon we will start to pull every thought about travelling apart and we will suspect every passer-by of terrorism. However, the racial melting pot is a sign of our modern times. There are cities where it is difficult to tell who is an autochthonic resident and who is from a so-called minority group. In every religion, race and culture there are black sheep who sow unrest but there are also good people.

I would like to write today about just such a good man. A few years ago in 2012, the square between the two parts of Opaczewska street in Warsaw gained a patron: the maharaja Jam Saheb Digvijay Sinhji, heir to the Navangar principality in west India. In 2014, a monument to this man, designed by Mark Moderau, was unveiled there.

The year 1939 was the end of carefree childhood days for many children. Fear for personal safety and that of one's family and about acquiring the simple means of our existence became an integral part of life, even for the very young. Suddenly, our safe home had disappeared and in return children and their parents were sentenced to exile. Many who were repatriated in cattle trucks to the Soviet Union, Kazachstan and remote, inhospitable Siberia did not survive. Later on it was even worse. Children were separated from their beloved parents, who were sent to labor camps and kolkhozes. They faced terrible conditions in Soviet children's homes and were treated horribly. This is not the way childhood should be. In 1941 the Polish people were allowed to return to their country. The adults joined Anders' army and the children were helped by good people. One of the beautiful characters in those dramatic times was the Polish actress Hanka Ordonówna. Together with her husband Count Michał Tyszkiewicz, she helped to set up a Polish orphanage in Ashabad, close to the Iranian border, where all Polish war orphans were transported from all over the Soviet Union.

The existence of Santa Claus is an inseparable part of our childhood. A mysterious fat man with a snowy white beard in a red coat with a big sack of presents used to come to us every Santa Claus day and Christmas Eve. Later on I realized that it was not always Santa Claus who visited kids at Christmas. Some of them were given presents by Angel or Star Man.

I still remember when on every 5th of December we polished our shoes until they gleamed, put them in front of our room and in the morning, anxious and barefoot, ran to make sure he had not forgotten about us. He never failed us. We always found some small packages and a rod lying nearby. We had not always been well-behaved of course. This stick served as a warning and encouraged us to be well-behaved for the next two weeks.

Obviously, he came for a second time on Christmas Eve. The way he made it to us depended on the weather: by sledge, by cart or on foot. We always looked out for his sledge in the sky, looking at the same time for the first star. Meanwhile, he appeared imperceptibly, leaving colourful packages by the Christmas tree. Sometimes he rang the door bell, but we were never fast enough to open it for him; sometimes he left the balcony door open and white footmarks on the floor.

These childhood memories, warm as the smell of coffee cake, I have cherished until today. At the same time, I cannot remember that painful moment when I realized that the man in red clothing was in fact my beloved parents, who were trying to fulfil my childhood dreams. Maybe it happened on the day my brother and I decided in secret to make our own presents for our parents and quietly put them under the Christmas tree? It was probably that moment when I realized that everyone could be like Santa Claus.