A festive offering from Susie Walters from Dawn’s writing group:
Christmas past, Christmas present and Christmas yet to come. We fill our minds with images of our childhood memories, of our yesterdays, to bring to the future for this yuletide season.
Bright coloured baubles that dance with joy, hung delicately from the fir tree of our dreams. Scarlet rays of ribbons and bows draped seductively with shimmering light. Affectionately, we dress our tree whilst singing carols with Christmas cheer. A glass of sherry seems so bold as we sip this warm and fuzzy drink; another one goes down well. ‘Tis the season to be merry.
Christmas Eve is here once again, the panic has begun. We wrap our pressies under the tree, hoping our loved ones will love our gift. With sticky fingers, in a frenzy, as the clock is ticking, we race against the time; darn that sellotape as it falls upon the floor. How many more to wrap? We guzzle another glass of finest cheer to beat the stress of tomorrow’s madness. At last, we can retire to bed, only to be woken early by the shrieks of delight from our children eager to play with their new toys, shouting: “Santa’s been, hoorah, hoorah!”
We tumble out of bed and hide that big red furry suit, and down the stairs, we go. Rushing to make our feast as our guests will be here at 2 pm for the event of the year. How many for dinner? 12, we gasp. Oh no, shock horror, as we open the fridge and find the turkey is still in the freezer. “Don’t worry,” you hear your partner say, “don’t panic!” We shout, throwing our hands up in the air. Another glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream we guzzle and try to rescue the turkey, but alas, it’s frozen solid.
Our guests have arrived; we do our best to hide our panic as they say: “what, no turkey?” and hand them a cocktail hoping this will defuse the situation. We busy ourselves in the kitchen slaving away with pots and pans which boil and bubble. Sweat is now pouring from our heated brow. It’s nearly time for dinner, and our guests are getting restless. We delve into the cupboard and find a tin of ham; well, beggars can’t be choosers, that will have to do.
Our guests take a seat at our table of decoration and wear their party hats. “Shh….speaks Grandma, it’s the Queen’s Speech. We sit and watch, then stuff ourselves silly with all the trimmings. Dinner finished, we collapse in a heap as we’ve overdone it on the Christmas pud!
We wish them a happy new year as they leave. “Next year we are coming to yours,” we say, waving them on their way. We close the door on another Christmas, until next year, we breathe a sigh of relief.
Happy Christmas everyone, we’ve made it through the day!