I want to go back to the Christmases of my childhood. Where, if there was turmoil in the world, we were unaware of it. Where festive music played on the radio – proper Christmas carols, the ones we practised singing at school. Where, if our mother was struggling financially, we were ignorant of the fact, because we always had a Christmas.
A Christmas Day where festive fare magically appeared on the table – roast meat and spuds on a stinking hot summer’s day, gravy and mint or apple sauce, home-made pudding, custard or cream. Ice-cream, jelly and tinned fruit salad. Fruit cake with thick white icing. Boxes of assorted biscuits. Round tins of Mackintosh toffees.
The bright summer sun streaming in through the windows, sparking off the tinsel on the real pine tree stood in the corner. A tree that made it smell like Christmas. Paper chains and foil milk bottle tops strung here and there; images of Father Christmas cut out from newspapers, coloured in and stuck on the wall. We weren’t aware of Advent calendars. I don’t remember instigating our count-down calendars but every year I made them, counting down to Christmas Day.
Presents. Not just one, not two, but many. Books and good quality toys, bought with care and love. The floor of our sitting room covered in discarded Christmas wrapping paper as we buzzed around, high on excitement and lollies.
I miss those far-off days, the Christmases of my childhood.
