Slipping into the costume of memory, sixtyish Christmases past start with new dresses mother made, white sprigged with blue violets, and dolls like hard plastic Mary who fell out of bed, broke her head and was forever scarred with orange plasticine.
The first bicycle, little and blue with a basket, Father Christmas left (wrapped in brown paper) amazingly indoors. Miraculously he must have delivered bikes to every child on the Central Fire Station too because that morning the big yard whirled and whooped with kids learning to ride..
There were train sets with tiny tunnels and villages; churches lush with incantations, big hats and incense; oranges, chocolates and the ritual Christmas morning trip in the chief's car ('49 Ford single spinner with siren) with dad and my bro, around outlying stations for obligatory festive drinks at each, while Mum flapped the pinny over a hot oven at home and yelled blue murder when we rolled in late and merry as lords.
The best china came out, there were lucky threepences in the pudding and afterwards, while Mum and the tipsy pretend-aunts lay down exhausted for naps in their petticoats, unusually the fathers did the dishes while we kids swam.
Distant nanas with spidery handwriting sent exotic lollies and cigars were compulsory, although admittedly the Father Christmas of the time was partly the Clement C Moore version from The Night Before Christmas - "The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath" - and partly the spirit of AA Milne's King John's Christmas - "King John was not a good man" - who brought him a big red India-rubber ball anyway.
