We’re now just a
few days away from the dreaded C-word. I refer not to c**t, not to cancer, but
to Christmas.
I used to love
Christmas when I was a kid. I can remember staring at the Postman Pat clock at
the end of my bed; tracking the painfully slow progress of the minute-hand as
it dragged its way across the clock-face; waiting for the allotted time that I
was allowed to check my presents.
One year I became
the proud owner of a Big Yellow Teapot. Looking back, this seems an unusual
concept: a strange marriage between a dolls house and an outsized drink-dispenser. It’s the sort of thing that never should have caught on; Eighties
children just had different expectations.
Another year we
got a ZX Spectrum. I remember sitting in front of it for hours with my dad,
whilst we programmed a primitive tennis game from scratch; entering the
seemingly endless code from the back of the manual.
(I’m not entirely
sure that it was worth the effort.)
I used to decorate our tree. I took great pride in the responsibility, though it took a good few years to learn the 'less is more' approach. My early attempts were pretty chintz-tastic.
The other day we put up the Christmas tree in my flat - and as we did my mind went back to those early Christmases. I wonder what happened to all the decorations that we used to have, that I can still picture so clearly.
I hope my mum didn't throw them out.