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As another
year draws to a close, I have to admit that I will not be sad to see it go. It
has not been one of the best for me personally, so I look forward to the new
one in the hopes that it will be better. Yesterday as always this time of the
year, I was reminiscing about Christmas’s past and thanking my stars that my childhood
was one of the best, as I was surrounded by a family who, although not rich by
any means, were intent on making Christmastime festive and fun.
One of my
earliest and most vivid memories was waking up while it was still dark on
Christmas Day, knowing that Santa had already been. Near my bed was a wooden
cot for my doll—a replica of a real babe’s cot. I never did learn which one of
my older brothers made it. The small covers atop the china doll who lay in it
were likely the work of one or two of my sisters, or perhaps my mother. They were
all seamstresses. At that time I was probably about four or five. All of us
girls slept in the same cold and draughty old room and probably ice had formed
on the inside of the window panes of our tenement house in North London.
More memories
sprang to life then. I recall receiving a miniature cooker plus all the
appropriate pots and pans, and I would spend hours in a corner of the living
room preparing make-believe meals. Another of my favourite gifts were the paper
doll books that I adored. In fact, I think they were the best gift ever. I
guess it was inevitable that I ended up in the fashion industry, but sadly I
never did particularly take to preparing meals and spend as little time in the
kitchen as I possibly can.
Christmas Day
was a rowdy affair in our home. One of my brothers dressed up as Santa Claus
and would distribute the presents from around the tree. No mobiles, tablets or
mechanised toys in those days, but along with the paper doll books there would
be at least one picture book for me and perhaps a box of handkerchiefs. Like
all good things of course those halcyon days had to pass as one by one the
family began to go their separate ways. I often wonder how our mother coped
with going from a large brood of ten to the two or three of us that remained at
least until we were wed. Always she kept her emotions to herself. I only saw
her shed tears once and that was on the day of our beloved Dad’s funeral. I
guess that was what was expected of wives and mothers in those days—carry on as
best one can and keep your feelings closely guarded.
Christmas Eve
holds special memories also as it was on that evening many years ago that I met
my husband to be. We danced the night away—rocking and rolling of course—and if
my memory serves me well there was a tram strike that night so it was a long
walk home from Tottenham to Highbury (Londoners will know what I mean).
As we move
swiftly into 2023, I wish everyone the best of times. May the New Year bring you
happiness and above all good health.
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