MORNING SERIAL

THE tension was palpable as, food finished, we again summoned Santa with our singing.

It worked this time too, although with the classy additional twist of his arriving on the roof, presumably in his sleigh, and his waving to us through the skylight windows set high above our heads near the ceiling.

We were handed little slips of paper to distinguish us as members of one of four groups; older and younger girls, and older and younger boys. Then there was a genuinely agonising wait as we queued to see the man in red himself. We let him know, one by one and solemnly so, what we hoped to receive on Christmas Day and then we were ushered, in line with the slips of paper we clutched tightly, to one of four big screens laid out in the hall, behind which lay four vast mounds of gift wrapped presents. This was genuine Plenty. Almost American in its excess. I was breathless.

At random we were handed a gift, and we ran back to our places at the tables to tear off the paper. My parcel was at least three feet long, and when unwrapped a proper fire engine was revealed. It was plastic, so not perfect, but it was vast, and had an extendable ladder. Really something.

I suppose that the Hoover party must have edged it, then, when it came to appealing to the sheer consumerist greed of the under tens. But they never did have proper chips, like the miners did.

Once, in the run up to Christmas, the churches and chapels in the village got together to pay for a large, outdoor Christmas tree. It was erected on the little triangle of public land just next to Mr Rees, the undertaker, right at the end of our street. It was huge. Easily as tall as a house. To complete the wonder of it, coloured electric light bulbs were trailed around its branches.

On the night of Christmas Eve we were bundled out into the street wearing bobble hats, duffle coats and mittens, to sing carols around the tree. There was a chant of, ‘Three, two, one!’ and the power was switched on.