Open Writing

Sure I am ready for Christmas. Just the puddings, mince pies and party fayre to finish, a last minute race to the shops, one or two presents to rewrap and the turkey to fold into the oven, then if I can keep my eyes open I intend to be the life and soul of the party.

This week is always overwhelming for the inefficient. If the pillowcases are not full enough now they will just have to be shortened!

We eat so frugally the week before Christmas, trying not to damage the festive stock, that the family tends to be thrilled with anything that doesn’t include peanut butter. The presents that we wrapped earlier seem to have shrunk with age. I could have sworn this doll was twice as big in the shop. But it usually turns out right on the day and the recipients often hold a ‘swap shop’ - sometimes agreeably.

One Christmas dawn, Santa stood frozen to his interlocks, vainly trying to persuade three-year-old son to come away from his sister’s sack and investigate his own. But the minute he grabbed her miniature vacuum cleaner he lost interest in everything else. After first removing the dust bag he spent all day aggravating the guests as he vacuumed everything within reach. The only peace we had was when he fell asleep and it eventually dropped from his paw. He lost interest after a while, but he has never been able to master his aggravation urge.

My excitement this year is insurmountable. I have been given my big chance – a part in the Sunday school play. I have adored Sir Laurence incessantly through his brilliant television portrayals, gleaning every fragment of artistic ability possible – come Sunday evening I shall be throwing it all into my debut.

Perhaps ‘part’ is a slight exaggeration, but although I say only one sentence, I believe my stage presence will be remembered for quite some time. It’s a sort of ‘out of character’ cameo, which calls for extreme acting ability on my part as I play a mother who does not like anything to interfere with her work. ‘I really don’t know what you are talking about, I have my work to do.’ It has a splendid vital ring to it, don’t you think.

There was talk of adding another line or two but unfortunately our producer decided against it. The rest of the family is not aware of this ‘star’ attraction, yet, they have enough excuses for non-attendance as it is.

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Remember my ‘Old Grey Bristle’ article concerning my antique grey coat? After a recent service a friend tugged the sleeve of my best mock ocelot and asked coyly, ‘Is this the old coat you bring out year after year then?’

Either my left leg has started growing at last or I’ve sewn one trouser hem shorter than the other. In order to stop myself tripping up when I’m wearing flat shoes I have to kick my feet free every few steps.

I was kicking my way to the zebra crossing when a fully loaded bus screeched to a halt and a sympathetic driver beckoned me across. Gratefully overcome by this unexpected gallantry, I naturally felt obliged to continue the kicking action until I reached the other side, and hope I remember it next time I run for a bus!

*

The air at our house is already heavy with the distinctive smouldering odours of Christmas, burning vac-belts, smoking candles and charring envelopes.

It’s surprising how certain smells evoke almost forgotten memories. I can never breathe in the acidy smell of red shiny apples without suffering a flutter of guilt, as I remember a certain December during the war.

My father was considered too vital to the war effort to be allowed home leave. When he was not clearing the jungle of poisonous snakes, he was busy helping West African natives build a camp cinema, and my mother, sister and I had to make the best of it without him.

Our Christmas lists, heavy with luxuries, like fruit and chocolates that were ‘rationed’ at that time, must have caused our mum quite a headache. We returned from school one afternoon to a strange spicy smell.

After a sniffing expedition and a clamber up the cupboard door I discovered six delicious mouth-watering Mac-reds gleaming on the top shelf. We blissfully shared one there and then and repeated the treachery at intervals until inevitably only one apple remained. We had decided to leave this one for mummy, until with cunning logic, which would have done any serpent proud, I pointed out if we ate them all there would not be any evidence.

I shall never forget my mother’s rage turning to bewilderment when we innocently asked ‘What apples?’ after the theft was realised. My remorse was such that I almost felt tempted to blame my sister, but as she couldn’t even reach the door handle, there did not seem much point.