A crust disturbed

The season of goodwill is almost upon us and my mind is drawn back to the yuletide of my childhood…

Father and I are visiting the high street choosing some Christmas victuals. First stop is Mr Pluck the greengrocers. We choose tangerines, bananas and chestnuts for roasting on the hearth. With trepidation father adds a bag of brazil nuts, hoping they will not play havoc with grandpa's dentures this year.

Next door is the domain of Mr Muttongrump the butcher and we opt for a brace of pheasants and a buxom goose guaranteed to quell all but the most ravenous of gastric urgings.

Meanwhile, back home cook is preparing the plum duff, granting the children the traditional sacrament of licking the spoon and the mixing bowl clean. Eager to receive this festive communion they gather about her like sparrows worrying a breadcrust.

Later, we stand back and let the local carollers deliver their repertoire in full, happy to see their faces light up with joy as mother hands them a mince pie each.

The rumble of a carriage heralds father's arrival. He stamps snow from his boots and unfastens his cloak. He bears a large sack and has a twinkle in his eye as he heads for his study.

Christmas Eve and the children are in a state of rapture. They have been fashioning paper chains with mother and their eyes are full of tinsel and fire.

At last, they are in bed asleep and mother and father fetch the gift boxes to place under the tree, looking forward to seeing the children open their presents tomorrow.

This magic has continued to the present day, shared first with our own children and now with our grandchildren.

Anthony Fenlon Bursledon Road, Waterlooville