In Good Company: Father Christmas's Last Stand
Enid Blackburn's reflections turned to Christmases past and present.
When our youngest reached 11 we decided it was time for Father Christmas's last stand at out house. This did take some of the pleasure out of the preparations I admit, but non-believers still hang up the pillowcases, so there is still the element of surprise to cater for.
Still five piles to sort out on Christmas Eve, wracking semi-conscious after-party brains at two o’clock in the morning, as to where we hid every-thing while Santa snores helpfully in his armchair. Then when the sacks have been distributed and we finally hit the sheets, that pleasant nostalgic wallow.
Of Christmases past, when carting prams and bikes up the staircase we wore both ourselves and the decor out, not helped with an unstable Santa often tripping over a sleeping child’s slipper. One particular occasion we had to deliver a bike three times. Every time we entered small son’s domain with his first two-wheeler, son’s eyelids went on the blink – we had to retract quickly. Not easy turning a corner, silently with a non-bendable frame between you, and Father Christmas’s vest caught in the pedals.
Time marches on, sleeping son is so well anaesthetised nowadays, the Navy could deliver a battleship without disturbing him.
The doll and pram tradition has altered somewhat. Manufacturers have milked this market to the last detail. Don’t put your purse away when you have purchased dolly – this is only the beginning. Next it’s all the outfits she needs for her wildly exciting social whirl. Naturally she then needs a wardrobe and furniture, her hair needs regular shampooing with special hair kit, plus a super priced make-up outfit. Latest extravaganza is a car-drawn fully equipped caravan, no less.
We all have our own feelings about this ‘peace to all’ season. Some refuse to be influenced by it.
To one of our teenagers it means ‘no school’ and ‘I like it – it’s just that I never have enough money.’ ‘All I can think about are my A-level exams after Christmas,’ moans another. ‘I love all the visitors and food,’ beams our youngest, a renowned washer-up skiver.
No need to ask son who celebrates every weekend, regardless, and I know husband hasn’t recovered from the phone bill - but I can’t help it. I love all the sparkle and glitter, stuffing myself and sleeping it off in front of a TV spectacular, sending cards to all and sundry and trimming the tallest tree I can afford.
I used to love the school Nativity play – now inadequately replaced by a communal church service. It was comforting to watch young Joseph and Mary wave proudly to their mums, the Three Wise nine-year-olds, grinning wickedly beneath their bath towels. I miss hearing the carol singers outside my door, although I made them earn their reward.
My Christmas starts with our candlelit chapel service. I like to grip the true spirit first and go on from there, savouring every merry, matey moment. Meeting up with relatives, making a fool of myself at parties, cooking rich food, opening presents – all washed down with a glass or three of my favourite wine.
Of course I blame being hooked on Christmas on my father. He started it by giving us all those unforgettable fun Christmases year after year. Now I find I just can’t give it up!
