As I sat in a small room in the Daily's building, dressed in a ridiculous red costume, sucking on a beard that kept slipping down, I couldn't believe how terrified I was.

I was just about to enter a room full of colleagues - but even worse, their expectant children - trying to be someone I didn't even believe in.

Make no mistake about it, playing Santa at Christmas time is not child's play.

The pressure, the expectation, the fear of losing your beard or big trousers, despite your super-sized black belt, had me quaking in my fake slip-on boot covers.

I'd never played Santa before and to be honest, I don't know if I could go through it all again.

For some reason, someone thought I might make a good Santa.

A shorter newsroom colleague of mine (I promise I won't mention any names, Bill) had cruelly suggested I'd been "growing into the role" all year.

At least I was growing, unlike my vertically challenged mate!

Sure, I've put on a pound or eight sitting on my computer for the past 12 months running this around-the clock caper called thedaily.com.au

But I was hopeful even I might need a pillow to fill out the Santa suit adequately.

No such luck.

The woman at Costumes Galore gave me the large Santa outfit - and it was a perfect fit.

I did take some comfort in the fact that they had an even larger costume.

“Do you want to try the larger one on,’’ she asked.

“No,’’ I firmly and proudly replied.

I'm not quite a contender for Biggest Loser and the big fat Santa suit yet - but who knows, maybe next year.

After putting on all the pieces that come with the suit, I emerged out of the dressing room to face my biggest nightmare - two pint-sized kids, wide-eyed as if I was the real deal.

"Look kids, it's Santa!'' their mum exclaimed.

Right there and then I wanted to run.

During the next few days, I had nightmares of emerging into a packed room of children only to choke on my "Ho, ho, ho".

H.... h.... h.... just would not have the same impact.

I’d heard all the talk about banning "ho, ho, ho" and almost took comfort in it, knowing if I choked, I could just say I was being politically correct.

But deep down in my big red suit I knew that was a cop-out – and as anyone who’s read my column knows, I’ve never been big on being politically correct.

So there I sat, waiting for my grand moment.

"Are you ready, Santa?'" a voice whispered from outside the door.

"No,'' I felt like saying.

But anyone who knows our Sally, knows she wouldn't take no for an answer so there was little point. As they say, resistance is futile.

So I got to my feet, adjusted my beard for the 50th time, cleared away enough of my wig to actually see through my glasses and then walked into the room, doing my best to be jolly and jovial.

To my great relief, the "ho, ho, ho" came out and the kids didn't immediately pull off the beard and wig to expose me as the fake I knew I was.

As long as I kept giving them presents out of the box, they didn't seem to take much notice of whether I was the real Santa or not.

But my biggest test came when my own three-year-old, Samuel, was "presented" to Santa by his big sister.

Completely wide-eyed, and looking somewhat frightened, I must say, Samuel didn't have a clue. I knew I had pulled it off.

As my 15 minutes of fame continued, I started to settle into the role, even asking little boys and girls whether they had been good or bad and what they wanted for Christmas.

Of course, as any good Santa does, I told them whatever they wanted, they would get – making the dad of the little boy asking for "two motorbikes" look somewhat nervous.

All in all, it was a merry Christmas party. But no Sally, not again next year!