Christmas Eve

 

The tree is up and mostly dressed, the cake is decorated and some presents are wrapped. 

Today I may fulfil Ferretfingers’ wish and tinsel up the ceiling.

Thunderthighs and I have strung all the cards up and made a crib under the tree.  Getting all the toy animals out I was delighted to discover I still have Dad’s blackcracker rat and placed him front and centre.

Like many people, I suppose, I’ve been thinking about Christmases past.

Long ago, before the boys, 

taking the train home, 

sometimes overnight, 

all the lights of the bungalow blazing as the train went past and Dad waiting at the station.

Even longer ago, going with Dad to get ‘the bird’ from a farm in Capel Isaac; not a village, more an area of tiny lanes and definitely no streetlights.  Apollo 8 was circling the moon and he almost convinced me he could see it “Look there … there … do you see the tiny light.”

Even earlier still … Our home was built in 1926, with fireplaces in the bedrooms.  Sometimes Dad would light a fire in the bedrooms to drive out the damp.   

How old was I lying in the scent of coal smoke and steamy wool, in the warm orange glow, singing Away In A Manger to myself?