Five December used to be the most exciting day of the year. It was way more fun than my birthday, Christmas or New Year’s. I used to celebrate it with one of my best friends, Sophie, and our families. First; the presents, afterwards; sauerkraut for dinner. Otherwise, our nerves couldn’t handle it. Excitedly we would wait until that old man and his helpers would deliver our presents. One time, Piet (probably a neighbour) broke an entire pane with his knocking. Another St Nicholas year, Sophie and I read a letter in which was said that the present were lying on the roof. We climbed the attic stairs and hoisted ourselves through a latch. I’d never seen something as romantic as that sight: a panoramic view of dark Amsterdam, houses with their lights burning and the roof with presents scattered all over.

It was custom during St Nicholas evenings that even the smallest gift was accompanied by a poem. There even was a poem when you only had to unwrap a chocolate letter.  My mother would sometimes rip a poem from my hands as I was reading it and gave it to my brother. Yeah, when you’ve got to write about thirty poems for eight different people, then of course you’re going to make a mistake or two.

I think I was about eight years old when I discovered that the man with the long beard was actually my uncle. When I was playing hide and seek in a broom closet on the morning of 5 December, I looked around and all I saw were presents. You must understand, I got slightly hysterical. But even more so because of my mum: “St Nicholas already delivered the neighbours’ presents” she kept emphasising. I wanted to believe her but I saw those exact presents in front of the fireplace that evening. They couldn’t fool me any longer. We would still celebrate St Nicholas together for quite some time.

My brother made me a Louis Vuitton bag as surprise, and I papier mâchéd a soccer ball for him.

Tonight’s again the night. Parents are probably still racing to and fro through the city for last-minute purchases. Children will be so nervous the entire day. How many doors will be knocked on much too loudly by a nervous neighbour?

I’m going to meet up with friends (unfortunately not Sophie because she lives abroad nowadays) in a Spanish restaurant (just to stay in the right country). Eating tapas, hopefully it’ll soften the homesickness, which we all tend to feel when we think of our childhood’s St Nicholas evenings.

My three favourite Tapas restaurants in Amsterdam:

• Pata- Negra, Utrechtsestraat 124
• La Olivia, Egelantiersstraat 122-124
• Café Duende, Lindengracht 62