It was Christmas Eve 1971, I was six years old. Old enough to be so excited that Christmas was finally here and I might get lots of presents the next morning that I was too excited to go to sleep.
It felt like the middle of the night, but might have been just midninght, when I heard the bedroom door open, and a figure carrying a bulging sack shuffled into my room. Although it wasn't wearing a red shuit, it was wearing a pink dressing gown. My Mother's. Because it was my Mother.
I lay awake hours processing this, that the story my parents, grandparents, teachers and everyone else about being good lest Santa would not call was a lie. A huge great big con.
I woke up that morning, and despite my parents trying to stop me, ran round to my best friend's, Stephen, house and told him he awaful truth about Santa. And ruined his Christmas.
A couple of years before, and I experienced my only White Christmas. I am pretty sure it must have snowed on one of the two Christmases I spent in Germany, but I have no memory. But I do remember it starting snowing just after lunchtime on the 24th, and it piling up outside, as much as it does in coastal Suffolk. I played in the show on the road outside until it started to get dark, and be called in by my Mother.
There should always be snow at Christmas.
And my first memory is of finding lots of brightly wrapped presents un the fake tree that had appeared in the living room, and being allowed to unwrap them, and in one finding a plastic Snoopy toy that squeaked when you squeezed it, it had a concave belly into which was a bar of soap. Who cares about soap when you have your own Snoopy? I walked up and down the house showing it over and over again to my parent, so thrilled to have received such a gift.
No comments:
Post a Comment