Why I miss honeycomb balls
CHRISTMAS 1983 was a watershed moment in our household. It was the last time that some of my favourite Christmas decorations were used. Goodness knows how old they were. Probably not much older than early 1970s, but they were magical to junior me.
It’s hard to explain as they are not widely sold any more, probably because they’re a fire risk, but they started off folded flat and, as you unfurled them, they turned into multi-coloured balls.
A quick Google reveals that they are honeycomb balls and, if you don’t mind going online, there are plenty of sites that flog them.
When the decorations came down on Thursday, January 5, 1984, they were consigned to the great festive celebrations in the sky. The reason I remember this so clearly is – quelle surprise – it is the date that the first episode of the new Doctor Who story began. Let’s not go there, as it’s one of the worst stories ever made and stars the guys who did the pantomime horse in Rentaghost as the big baddie.
Anyway, that Christmas my parents decided it was time to redecorate our lounge, taking away the naff 70s wallpaper that looked like someone had rolled a dirty cigar over the walls, and replace it with 1980s chic. Well, cracked ice wallpaper in the vernacular.
When the walls were transformed, it would be the end of the gaudy decorations, the balloons and streamers, and, well, an era to be precise.
Nearly 40 years on (how did that happen?) it still hurts, and I miss those honeycomb balls.
It wasn’t just the décor – the excitement of Christmas coming, the anticipation of visits from Father Christmas, the joy of parties and even a bottle of pop made this time of year incredibly special.
Even now, in my head, I can still smell those decorations, and I’m instantly transported back to happier times and places.
Every home has its own Christmas traditions. Mine is very much not to have any as everything from post-Remembrance Sunday onwards is about helping you celebrate yours, be it the Winter Carnival, the light switch-ons, the pantomimes or the wonderlands. By the time I get to December
24, I’m already on to Valentine’s Day. Not that anyone sends me any, but that’s another story.
A few years ago, I did try and create a magical, wonderful, exciting festive tradition based around the other end of 1984.
Over six weeks, from November 21, 1984, through to Christmas Eve, Children’s BBC broadcast an adaptation of John Masefield’s classic children’s novel The Box of Delights.
It’s a magical tale of a boy who returns home from public school for the Christmas holidays only to end up being chased by a vicar and a rat for a box. He also loses his shadow, sees flying cars, eats muffins and ends up the size of a matchbox.
It was, at the time, one of the most technologically advanced programmes Auntie had ever made. As a child, it entranced me, as a grownup it is a comfort blanket amid all the winter woe.
So, just as I did back in the 80s, I persuaded the family to watch it with me one episode a week in the run-up to Christmas.
We managed two years of this, but there was a rebellion in year three.
“The Box of Delights? We call it the box of boringness,” they said.
I tried, reader, I tried. What makes Christmas magical for me won’t be what makes it special for you.
I mention all this now as this weekend is the one to start watching The Box of Delights, on my own. I can’t be the only one who remembers this glimpse of Christmas past with so much fondness, can I?