Christmas past

The season of goodwill is almost upon us and my mind is drawn back in time to the yuletide of my boyhood.

Father negotiates the price of a turkey-bird with Mr Grimtripes the butcher and we finally emerge with a strapping wattle-necked brute, guaranteed to quell all but the most ravenous of gastric urgings.

Making the Christmas cake now and cook grants the children the traditional sacrement of licking the spoon and the mixing bowl clean. Eager to recieve this sweet communion they gather about her like sparrows worrying a breadcrust.

Later, we stand back and allow the local carol singers time to deliver their festive repertiore in its entirety, happy to witness their faces light up with joy as mother bestows upon them a cold 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 near 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.

Time now to put their feet up and enjoy a glass of sherry.

After leaving a stale mince pie for Santa and a carrot for Rudolf they retire to bed, full of goodwill and glee, not unlike children themselves as they anticipate the look upon the little ones’ faces at gift opening time, such was the magic of Christmas.

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

Bursledon Road Waterlooville