It's Christmas Day, December 25, 2025. My 73rd since birth, to be precise. I would like to write and post a brief article about this.
I woke up to a clear sky, but with a chilly east wind waving the branches of the trees behind our backyard to and fro. All was quiet. Alex and I remained in bed until around 11.30 am, before making an effort to rise. Not that I slept that long. I served breakfast at 9.00 am before returning to bed. As I write this, it's about tea time, and the cloudless sky was beginning to darken as the night arrives from behind to lay its hand upon the daylight's shoulders.
It has been very quiet in our street throughout the day. A few of our neighbours' homes had plastic snowmen on display in their front yards, Christmas lights illuminating the street-facing kitchen windows, and now and again, a resident with no issues with energy bills would cover his entire house with a dazzling array of coloured lights. Not a soul could be seen. Our street looked as if evacuated. Rows of parked cars stand side by side. Not even a bird chirping or a domestic cat sniffing around. And so, the world turns on its axis as it flies in a big circle around the sun. And the clock keeps on ticking.
And throughout the day lies a sadness in my soul, indeed, on a day when I should be happy.
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| Our street on Christmas Day, 2025. |
Like the Christmas days of the past, say around 60-65 years ago. On the night of Christmas Eve, as I was sent to bed, my excitement was pulsating enough to evade sleep. I even peered through the curtain for a hope of a glimpse of Saint Nick, dressed in red, a white beard, and his wheelless chariot pulled by a team of flying reindeer. Never mind that, since those quadrupeds were wingless, flying would create aerodynamic problems; I wouldn't allow a scientific fact to get in the way of childhood fantasy.
Such were these fantasies of Father Christmas calling in the middle of the night, that by the time I was in my thirties, I left the window of my bachelor pad open with a mince pie on the windowsill. By Christmas morning, the window was still ajar, and the mince was still there, untouched. And no presents.
It seemed that Old Nicholas had forgotten that I had grown up, and he left my presents at my parents' home. You know the type of presents - ill-fitting clothes that have to be returned after the holidays are over.
But the magic of Christmas was back in the early to mid-sixties, my pre-teen years, and during the early teens. On Christmas Day, my father's brother and his wife would arrive. Unfortunately, they had no children approximating my age. Just as well. If on one occasion, he told me off for not wearing a tie on a Saturday morning, heaven help his poor offspring!
However, the Christmas air was electric. While my brother and I were engaged in play, Mum and Aunt were in the kitchen, preparing the turkey, with its roast potatoes, red cabbage, Brussels sprouts, and gravy. Oh yes, sprouts. The green veg is detested by many children, and even on Christmas day, their joyful play with their toys was interrupted by the Christmas dinner table, with the child's tears rolling down his cheeks at the sight of the sprouts served in front of him.
But not me. I always love sprouts, and to me, Christmas wouldn't be complete without them. Alongside our plate lay the crackers, those funny paper things that were meant to go bang when pulled at each end. Too many times, there was no sound at all, except that resembling a kiss as the cracker breaks in the middle. Then the Christmas pudding and cream. Dad had a tradition of pouring vodka or whiskey onto the pudding and setting it alight. And the blue flame still flickered in our bowls.
Then followed nuts, both walnut and hazel nuts, along with Torrone (an Italian nougat) and panettone. And with our toys on our mind, whether a Hornby battery-powered train set, a Meccano set, or even for one year, a chemistry set. No, you can't buy these any more, due to elf-n-safety, but chemicals such as copper sulphate crystals and other similar substances were packed neatly in the same way as the train set. The one disappointment with the chemistry set was that the methylated spirits for the burner came separately; thus, I was denied full use of the set until after the holidays were over.
Very much like the child with an exquisite toy but no batteries.
After dinner, the ladies returned to the kitchen, and the two men relaxed with a cigar. Oh! That cigar aroma! As it filled the room, it was so connected with Christmas. My brother returned to his toys, and I returned to finish off that functioning Meccano model or the train set.
As a boy, how I loved Christmas with its joyful atmosphere. As far as I remember, there were no quarrels or disagreements. I think their joy was watching us play with our toys with enthusiasm.
Today, so many years later, as we snuggle up to each other, these Christmas memories return, and as I watch my beloved open her Christmas presents, I let out a sigh.
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