We’d wake very early and after the first seconds of in-comprehension, would ping with remembrance of what day it was – usually through feeling the heavy stocking lying across our feet. No hanging on a doorknob for us, or even hanging by the fire side downstairs – what’s the point of that? In later years I’d come across people whose family tradition was to have a Christmas pillowcase. Surely the roominess of a pillowcase would take the fun out of second-guessing the lumps and bumps inside, let alone be a headache, cost-wise, for parents to fill?
No,
in our family the tradition was for presents to be rammed into one cut-off leg
of an old pair of tights and then placed across the bottom of the bed. The excitement of dealing with the presents
and chocolates and fruit that we found there would keep us occupied for a while
and extend our parents’ time in bed.
But
only by a very little, in truth, because if they weren’t woken by our shrieks
and squeals and the noise of us scurrying from bedroom to bedroom to see what
each other had got, then our lack of patience in wanting to go downstairs to
find our ‘big presents’ would soon become apparent.
Eventually,
we’d pluck up courage and our voices would join together in a chorus of ‘can we
go down yet?’ And eventually they’d
agree that we could and we’d thunder down the steep stairs of our little
council house and into the darkened cave of the cold, winter living room.
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