Sunday 13 December 2009

Memories of Christmas

As I decorate my tree, make gift tags, madly knit presents and watch my kids open their advent calendars, I can't help but look back to Christmas Past. As each day passes and I prepare our house, our kitchen and our minds for The Big Day, I realise how much more like my dad I am becoming. This is something that, despite what he may think, makes me very proud.

You see, I know that I can say, without hurting my mum's feelings, that it was Dad who made Christmas in the Pocock house as exciting and special as it was. Let me be clear - Dad made a small contribution to Christmas dinner - he carved. He carved very well, I might add, in fact he still does!!! The turkey was always perfectly cooked by mum, but thinly and precisely carved by Dad. Other than that, Dad made no contribution to dinner. Mum did lots of wrapping (carfeully coached by Dad!!!) Mum did the cleaning, ironing and all of the essentials things needed to keep a household running. But Dad would be totally overwhelmed by the little Christmassy details - the little things that make Christmas special and magic.

For example, Dad always chose the tree very carefully. This hasn't changed. Dad's perfectionism about the Christmas tree often led to us standing in a field, shivering, and usually moaning. Dad always put the lights on the tree. He was careful in this process too, always ensuring that the lights were evenly distributed about the tree, with no dark areas. One legendary story about Christmas, came from Dad's passion for the right lights, in the right position, and ones that actually work. If you've ever seen "Fawlty Towers" and you can imagine how the lead character, Basil, would react to his lights not working, you'd have a very clear picture of how Dad dealt with it....Mum and Dad are unfortunately still guilty of using the most interesting of coloured tinsel...not really my thing...But I know that the tree at their house, has an honesty about it. It is our tree - decorated with ornaments that actually have meaning for our family - a silver angel with "Sally" engraved on it; a silver reindeer with "Benjamin" written on it; baubles made by us and a funny little snowman made of yarn.

Dad now takes great pride in his subtle and pretty outdoor string lights - so lovely!!!

Dad has always made Christmas magical. Father Christmas always used our front doorstep as a feeding station. Every Christmas morning, we'd open the front door to find that he'd left straw and chewed-up, spat-out carrot all over the floor. Sometimes, he'd leave an extra family present outside too - one year, it was a DVD player!!

During Advent, new decorations such as calendars, menorahs and candles would appear - Dad has always loved a bargain!!! A lovely fresh wreath would be hung on the front door and big boxes of chocolates and biscuits would find themselves into the cupboards.

Then would come the most exciting of pre-Christmas traditions - our family trip to see Father Christmas at Selfridges in London. Every year, we made our way up to London, by car. Driving along Knightsbridge, we'd see Harrods and the displays that showed winter, but not Christmas. (At that time, they did not have any Christmas displays, as the owner was Muslim.) We'd park in one of the back roads that Dad knew (he knows all the short-cuts and all the free parking spaces!!!) Making our way up Regent Street, we'd pass Hamley's and occassionally go inside. One year, I recall seeing an enormous pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. I was desperate for one with ginger hair. That year, Dad drove all over the South of England to find one!! We'd then walk a short journey along Oxford Street, seeing the Christmassy windows and smelling the roasted and candied chestnuts.

Finally, we'd arrive on Bond Street and the Selfridges windows would call us inside. Walking through the perfume and cosmetics department, I'd smell a mixture of my mum and my Nanny Pocock. I'd see pretty ladies with long nails, wrapping little boxes up and putting them in little bag,s and as we'd walk past hangers of silk scarves and suede gloves, I'd feel them on my face.

Queuing to see Father Christmas was never boring. Dad would ask us what we thought Father Christmas was doing, what we were going to ask for, what we thought his house was like, what were the elves doing. He and Mum would have conversations that they thought we could not hear about whether Father Christmas would remember them from when they were children.

When it was our turn, Dad would always have a good chat with Father Christmas. We knew that he was real. We knew it, because Dad showed us in the way he spoke to him. It was all real.

Christmas Eve was unbearably exciting. Dad would wake up in the morning and make these funny "oh-isn't-it-so-exciting" noises. During the day, we had to make sure that our rooms were nice and tidy. He'd go out during the day and return with flowers for Mum - every Christmas Eve. In the evening, we'd hang our sacks - yes, sacks - on our bedroom door handles. Going to sleep was impossible. I remember that one Christmas Eve, I could not sleep. I was sleeping on a fold-out camp bed in Mum and Dad's room as both of my nannies were staying over. I was about three years old. We'd visited London days before, and I'd been bought a foil helium-filled balloon. I spent the night looking up at it, convinced that I could see Father Christmas' reflection in it. Eventually, Mum and Dad came up to bed.

"He'll not come if you don't go to sleep," said Mum. Suddenly the door bell rang. Dad went down to answer the door, whilst I stood, hiding behind the bannister, upstairs with Mum.

"Oh hello, Father Christmas!" said Dad.

"Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!! Is Sally awake?" said a low voice from outside.

"She is!! Would you like to come down and see Father Christmas, Sally?" said Dad

I shook my head. I had what I like to call a "healthy fear" of Father Christmas. I saw a white gloved hand, pass a sack of presents to my Dad, and watched my Dad say "goodbye" to Father Christmas as he closed the front door. Dad quickly ran up the stairs and we looked out of the window, where we saw Father Christmas on his sleigh, with his reindeer, fly off into the night sky.
I clearly remember this. So, whenever anyone dares to claim that Father Christmas is not real, I tell them my story - proof that he is, indeed, very real.

Christmas Day was always the same - a cup of tea; opening the presents from our sacks, in Mum and Dad's room; the rush downstairs to see if Father Christmas had left any mess on the doorstep; a cooked breakfast at the table; getting dressed into our new Christmas clothes; off to church; pick up Nanny Pocock and her sacks of presents for us; home for a cup of tea and a mince pie; finally time to open the presents under the tree!!! This was always really exciting. Mum and Dad would give us a few little presents and then a main one too. These would usually be hidden. We'd have to follow clues around the house. One year, I had to follow a piece of string that travelled around the house and eventually finished at the shed, where I found Dad holding my present - a baby rabbit, that I named Rona.

You see, Dad never held back on making Ben and I feel really loved and special. He sacrificed so much for us. Despite often being out of work, Mum and Dad never neglected to surprise us and bless us. There was always a full sack of presents each, and piles of lovely food. Most of all, the traditions and memories were rich and bountiful - family board games in the afternoon, Nanny Pocock not really understanding the rules, and lots of laughing.

I loved Christmas then and I love it now. Thanks to my lovely dad, it will always be special and I will do all I can to make it such. My only hope is that my children experience Christmas as I did - full of magic, wonder and excitement.