Christmas was grim up north

It was and is always colder in the north than the south. Obviously.

When I first moved to London from Carlisle in 1958, I wondered where winter was and when it would come.

Rain, yes, and of course horrible smog – so thick and yellow you opened the door and choked. But cold? No, London wasn’t really cold; just damp till after Christmas.

I shared a bed with my younger brother till my mother let out my half of the bed to a boy from an orphanage. At 18, I had gone off to Durham University, which was even colder, and I returned for the Christmas vacation to find this strange lad in my part of the bed. And the bedroom was, of course, frozen.

In Carlisle, it used to be white even in my bedroom. Every Christmas, the insides – repeat, insides – of the windows got frozen. You had to do a complicated manoeuvre when getting dressed in the morning, taking care not to let your bare feet hit the floor. You might be stuck there, frozen to the lino, till the thaw came in spring.

Our northern family Christmas was a fairly spartan affair, not just because of the cold, but because my parents were Scottish. Hogmanay – New Year’s Eve – was a much bigger occasion. It was the only time in the year we had alcohol in the house. I’m not sure if eggnog, which my mother loved, counts as alcohol.

We did have a cocktail cabinet in the parlour – ooh, posh – which never contained any cocktails, whatever they were. It showed we were respectable, northern, working class – and cultured. Inside were three little brass monkeys holding their hands at different angles – signifying see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil. I often look out for them today in the Sotheby’s sales.

One of the Scottish traditions at New Year’s Eve was first-footing. As a boy (which I still am), and with very thick, dark hair – oh God, I wish I had it now – I was sent round the streets on the first stroke of midnight to take a piece of coal to each neighbour to bring them luck in the year ahead. The first-footing had to be done by a dark-haired, male member of your family. My father could not do it. He was an invalid lying in bed, shouting at me to check his football pools.

Christmas in the south always seemed warmer and more lavish than Up North, and we soon picked up the soft southern ways. I don’t remember any parties in our street in Carlisle but, dear God, Christmas in London NW5 is pure Bacchanalia.

For 20 years, when our children were at home, we had a lavish Christmas Eve party for all the neighbourhood, with flowing wine, fine food and fab games. Our northern relations thought it was soft and soppy, and showing-off. All true.

Everyone – old and young – had to perform: sing, recite or play an instrument. I used to play the violin. I did go to lessons for three years as a boy – see, we were cultured – but I was useless.

I devised my own version of Mr & Mrs, which always led to some embarrassing revelations when a husband couldn’t answer some personal questions about his wife’s pleasures and preferences.

My wife created a game for the kiddies called Strip On. She collected a huge pile of our old clothes, divided the children into two teams, and they had to race across the room in turn and pile on the garments. When the pile was depleted, the team with the most items won. Feel free to pinch the idea.

Happy Christmas and Happy Hogmanay!