Memories of a boyhood Christmas

Come on, it’s 6 o’clock and time for bed my mother said, there is a lot still to do before Christmas Day. Now, hang up your stocking at the end of your bed, put out biscuits on the edge of the bath for the reindeer while I ask daddy to leave a glass of warming whisky for Santa Claus, don’t forget the letter that you have written to him too.

The long run-up to Christmas always seemed to start at the end of October with the clocks going back an hour. The two remaining months before Christmas were an extremely busy time for a small boy; presents had to be made for one’s mother and father plus any relations coming to stay for the festive period, not forgetting decorations.

An early introduction to knitting enabled the making of string dishcloths, or if very adventurous a scarf of recycled wool taken from an old jumper. My father’s old matchboxes could be repurposed into storage boxes by simply glueing six together, covering with patterned wrapping paper and employing brass paper fasteners as handles. Decorations consisted of chains made of strips of coloured paper glued together, paper hanging bells made by cutting out the shape of a bell onto myriad sheets of coloured paper, stitching them together down the middle and fanning them into a bell shape.

But then, the moment had come, teeth cleaned, prayers said and into bed, just as I snuggled in, my sheet weighted down with layers of blankets to keep out the cold, a thought struck – could I catch Father Christmas in the act of filling my stocking? To my mother a quick question: may I have a yard of string. when asked why I gave a simple explanation: I am going to thread the string through the end of my bed, tie one end to my toe and the other to the stocking, such that when Father Christmas picks up the stocking to fill it the string will pull upon my toe and wake me up and thus I will catch him.

So the trap was set and off to sleep I went dreaming of toy trains, Meccano and even a penknife. Morning came, the sunlight filtered by the layer of ice on the inside of the window, the blankets appeared heavier pressing on me at the foot of the bed only to discover that it was the stocking filled – but no sight of Father Christmas. No matter, onto the unwrapping.

That first delve into the stocking is the most wonderful experience – feeling the shape and hardness of what is wrapped in tissue, guessing and hoping, before withdrawing it – could one guess – is it, oh is it – yes, just what I wanted. The next burrow in could be met with the sharp prick of holly, inserted no doubt to slow one down. As one neared the toe a bag of chocolate money and possibly an orange.

And then it was Christmas day, rushing to my parents’ bedroom with delighted cries of ‘look what I have got!’