And so my mind wanders back and recalls little fragments of childhood. It remembers that I used to be allowed to stay up later than usual, and used the time watching TV programmes which I found all the more vibrant and interesting for being part of the magical day.
It remembers that I used to go the bedroom window and gaze at the night sky above the wood at the back of the house. I was looking for evidence of unusual activity, and twice I was rewarded. Once there was a very bright star which I thought was probably the one the Wise Men had followed. Another time I saw a light crossing the sky and was very nearly certain that it was Santa Claus performing his annual duty.
It remembers how I used often to think of the archaic term ‘swaddling clothes’ because it fascinated me for some reason, and how I made the effort to discover that the alternative term ‘swathing bands’ was synonymous.
It remembers how restless I felt when I lay down in bed, fearing that I might be too excited to go to sleep, for we all knew that Santa Claus never visited children while they were awake. And sometimes I would remind myself that I mustn’t forget to say happy birthday to Jesus when I woke up. (To my recollection, I only remembered to do so once.)
And it remembers that Christmas Eve when I was around ten and went out after dark to post a present I’d bought for a school friend through his letter box. It was only a cheap plastic ballpoint pen, but I think I was already aware that the worth of a gift had more to do with intent than pecuniary value. (Times have changed, it seems.) This is particularly poignant because I did the very same thing tonight after all those decades. Twice in one lifetime, and at opposite ends of it to boot.
And here I am now on Christmas Eve 2022, rationalising the fact that I have ‘bah, humbug’ ever on my lips despite being the very antithesis of Scrooge by nature.
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