I was asked to write something for a Christmas event at an over-60s club and this is what I came up with:
Christmas 1957
The cherryade is opened on Christmas Eve,
Not a moment before.
The classroom paper chains and streamers,
Tea towel shepherds and plastic baby Jesus are done with.
And the motley carols have drifted to the heavens on wings of innocence.
Now the tree lights lie strewn across our carpet
While Dad swears and sweats and unscrews each bulb.
Mum, sighing, arms folded,
Dreams that one year, just one year,
The lights might work first time.
But there is magic in the climb to bed
A pillowcase at my feet.
And a long long night before us.
We unwrap our presents, whispering in the first threads of dawn.
Always an orange, always a sugar mouse
Always the Robin Annual.
We creep downstairs to the front step
To fetch the frozen milk with the beak holes in the lid
And set it on the stove to warm for our morning cereal.
The grown-ups stir slowly
And shamble around in their dressing gowns,
Then, without warning, they are seized by a mystifying energy,
And drag us off on bitter walks along the snowy beach,
Proclaiming loudly how invigorating it is
Before decamping to their customary sloth before the fire.
We shed our boots on the icy step
And wonder what that was all about.
We watch as the grandmothers creak around the house
Flaunting their skills at gravy, or stuffing
Or Christmas pudding.
Sighing as my mother stabs at the bird.
No, not like that dear, says Grandma
As she deftly carves the breast.
We gorge on turkey - are you sure it is cooked properly dear?
And Christmas pudding - No thank you dear – I have to think of my bowels.
Strewn on sofas and armchairs,
Paper hats askew
They affect a glimmer of interest in
The grainy grey queen with her strangled vowels
Trapped in her tiny TV screen in her twin set and pearls,
Before they finally drift into oblivion,
Accompanied by soft rumblings, both nasal and intestinal,
Leaving us free to raid the Quality Street tin
And bag the purple ones with the nuts in.
They surface briefly to slice the Christmas cake
And chase the crumbs round their plates in desultory fashion
Before packing us off to bed.
Brazil nut chocolate shared round the dwindling fire,
Signals the end - a last treat and it is done.
My brother kicks me in our shared bed
As Grandma snores in mine.
That’s my bit of sheet,
No it’s mine.
Happy Christmas.
