Back home my sister and I helped put the tree up. Our favourite part was opening the boxes of tree ornaments collected over the years. Some were beautiful, others tacky, but all much loved and often held a personal memory for each of us. Mum wasn't a great cook but she made the best Christmas pudding I've ever tasted. Finding the hidden sixpence inside it would be one of the highlights for me.
I always went carole singing with my friends. We sang random traditional songs for as long as people would listen before coming to the door with their pennies. We'd go to the richer neighbourhoods, as back then they could afford to give more. It never occured to us to keep the money for ourselves, we always collected for charity, usually the Association for the Blind. The local village Post Office had a stocking to put donations and we'd proudly add ours to it.
Father Christmas made his rounds on his sleigh a week or so before Christmas, to make a final check on what we wanted. Of course, we knew he wasn't the real Father Christmas, just one of his helpers ... the real one was way too busy in the North Pole getting everything ready for the big night. We also knew the one in the department store we'd had our picture taken with was a helper too ... even the great FC couldn't be in more than one place at a time ... even if he was magic and could shrink down to about two inches to fit underneath our gas fire. We also knew he didn't always travel in a sleigh because he sent us a card in reply to our Christmas lists. These cards had a picture on the front of what he would be arriving in that year - a hot air balloon, a jumbo jet and sometimes the traditional sleigh. Yes, we had first hand knowledge of dear old Father Christmas. He even got my sister's name mixed up with her wish list one year and addressed her card to "Miss Alison Melodica".
We'd go to bed early Christmas Eve after leaving a mince pie, a glass of whiskey for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolph on top of the mantle piece. Then we'd sneak out onto the landing at hourly intervals to see if he'd been yet. Eventually we'd fall asleep exhausted, but not before being told off several times by Mum threatening that it still wasn't too late to tell Father Christmas we hadn't been good.
Christmas morning started way too early for my Father. My sister and I would try to get up around 3am, our main presents would be spread out on the landing between our bedrooms. I'd run downstairs to open up number 25 in my advent calendar, say hello to the Baby Jesus and rush back upstairs where Mum sent us back to bed until around 6am ... which was still too early for Dad! Regardless, we'd drag all our presents into their room, tear the paper off, whooping with delight and handing out thank you hugs and kisses.
There were more presents under the tree in the Living Room but these would wait until after breakfast when Mum and Dad were ready to open theirs. The Living Room always looked different. In order to put the tree in the traditional corner and have the dining table up, the setee had to be placed across the door and we had to enter via the Kitchen. Dad would prise the lid off the tin of Quality Street before dinner and Mum would snatch it away in case it spoiled our appetites. We'd beg for a chocolate off the tree but she'd make us wait for these too ... so much more delicious for the wait!
Dinner always smelled fantastic. My stomach would rumble, even though I couldn't possibly have been hungry with breakfast and all that chocolate inside me. It was the best meal of the year, even better than the one we traditionally had at the steak house for each of our birthdays. I was full to the brim but always managed to find room for the pudding, which Mum soaked in brandy, lit with a flourish and then drowned in custard. We had one of those table centres with candles that sent the little golden angels spinning around and ringing bells. I always wanted to be one of those flying angels or better still inside the snow globe with the little church, the deer and the fir tree. I still get that feeling when I look into a snow globe today.
So forgive me if Christmas doesn't fill me with awe and wonder the way it used to when I was a child. Forgive me if the memory of never being able to afford to give my children anything other than what they need dampens my spirits a little. Forgive me if I'm sad at this time of year because I long for a family Christmas the way it used to be.
For a decade now I've been unable to spend all the days of Christmas that count with my children. Each year they go to their Father on Christmas Day feels like any other day of the year, only worse. Don't get me wrong, I have always made the best of things and thought myself lucky to have them here every Christmas Eve and morning ... the best part is the excitement before going to bed, the traditional mince pie, drink and carrot for Father Chrismas and Rudolph and being woken at silly o'clock to open our presents!
Angel has spoken ... I realise there are worse ways to spend Christmas and I'm not here to win any awards, just a little nostaglic for less stressful, happier times! 
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| More Ghosts of Christmas Past |
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