By Fiona Walker
You may have noticed by now that Christmas is fast approaching! In fact, you could have been forgiven for thinking that it was imminent more than six weeks ago, as the season of festive frolics seems to start earlier every year.
At this point, I must put my hand in the air and admit that I’m a traditionalist, who would happily pass a law to ban Christmas trees, corny festal tunes and seasonal jumpers being employed before the first of December!
Don’t get me wrong, I love this time of year; I just don’t want it to be stretched to breaking point in the name of commercialism.
Younger readers (by which I mean under the age of 50!) may be surprised to know that in my childhood, my family was not alone in our tradition of putting the Christmas tree up on 24 December.
In fact, as children we went to bed on Christmas Eve in a non-decorated house and awoke to baubles, tinsel and an appealing array of parcels. That was fine, until the year my father decided to cut costs by using a home-grown centrepiece; after all, we had a beautiful fir tree in the garden, why not use that? The tree in question was, at that point, over 30- feet tall, so he decided to simply lop off a branch – and a not very straight branch at that – to use as a substitute tree.
Five small people walked into the lounge the following morning, agog with excitement and anticipation. Even at the age of about four, I can remember the sheer disappointment of that apology of a tree, a sagging branch bravely adorned with baubles, metallic streamers and lametta (look it up, you young’uns).
The following year, we had a real tree.
The magic of Christmas day started with bulging stockings…undies and hankies, a Bronley lemon soap, a pen with interchangeable coloured inks, and a book or two. Never anything extravagant, but the anticipation was still sufficient to awaken us at a ridiculously unsocial hour!
Tradition decreed that we went to church, before visiting the old folks’ home at St Aubin with a box of jellied fruits. Then it was on to the telephone exchange at Red Houses, with a gift for the operators at work on Christmas day.
For 364 days of the year, my mother cooked on a Rayburn, but on this one day, our electric oven was cranked into use. This, of course, presented its own problems, plus mild hysteria over whether lunch would be ready on time. That particular challenge was overcome by her getting up at 6am to put the turkey in the oven; goodness knows how large that beast was, or how slow the oven, if it required seven hours of cooking, but I think the sprouts went on at around the same time.
Somehow, both family and bird, plus a multitude of trimmings, got to the table at the appointed hour. Food was served, crackers pulled and everyone merrily tucked in.
To my disappointment, we weren’t allowed any brandy butter unless we had some Christmas pudding with it, but at least there was the opportunity to find a sixpence (if you were lucky) or a charm (if you were less so) in the pud, which was some consolation when trying to hide most of it under your spoon!
A less popular tradition with us children was that of waiting until the Queen’s speech was over before opening our gifts. I’m sure the whole programme only lasted for about 15 minutes, but to a small child itching to get their hands on some presents, each of those minutes lasted at least 600 seconds!
Our gifts were modest, but that really didn’t matter. I taught myself a cruel lesson at the age of about nine, by peeking into the wardrobe where our Christmas surprises were “hidden” in the run-up to 25 December. There were the beautiful red velvet trousers that I’d been hoping for. I was delighted and couldn’t wait for the big day when I’d actually get the wear them. But to my deep disappointment, those longed for items were destined not for me, but for my sister. I never peeked again!
Christmas day continued with Disneytime on TV, the circus and the inimitable Morecambe and Wise…and then, suddenly, it was all over for another year!
Whatever you’re doing this Christmas, I hope you create a multitude of happy memories to look back on. And, despite the early start and the commercialisation of it all, that the magic of Christmas still shines through!
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Fiona Walker was born and educated in Jersey and worked in finance before having children. She moved into media, presenting her own programme on BBC Radio Jersey, then as a senior broadcast journalist for local BBC television news. She was editor of The Jersey Life and wrote eight series for the national publication Motor Boat & Yachting magazine. She now promotes Jersey charity shops on social media under the name Upstylejersey.
