… the hamster, that is – not my attitude to Christmas. In fact, I loved Christmas this year, and there are moments of the past three days that I intend to relish for a very long time. Like settling on the sofa to read The Night Before Christmas to discover that Ilse has learned the poem by heart, or she and Seb adding their own secretly homemade presents to the pile under the twinkling tree. The children all climbing into bed with us on Christmas morning – even Fliss, even Ben – to unwrap the books and socks and stationery that Father Christmas had so carefully chosen for each of them, and seeing that he’d got it right. Or watching their faces as they unwrapped surprises on Christmas afternoon.
It really is better to give than to receive, and I saw the children watching as their gifts to us and one another were opened and admired. From Ilse: coloured card cut into paper stars to hang upon the tree. Sweets from Ben and Fliss, which I can only assume they made in Mother’s kitchen as I’ve not been out of ours for days. And last minute whittling from Seb: birds and paper knives and other little things. They were lovely presents, carefully dreamed up and executed with muted excitement behind closed doors. I love that our children all love making things.
The presents I received were all about making, too. Sock wool in just the right shade of muted green; a length of tweed from Abram Moon in the colours of the late September moors; piano books full of Chopin and Deubussy to master; a new pattern book to pore over and unpick. There’ll be no shortage of projects on my list next year.
On a Boxing Day, though, we left all the gifts at home after a late and lazy breakfast, and headed out for a walk under a bright and wind-scoured sky. It was freezing and sunlit and a million miles away from the small excesses of the day before, and it whet our appetites for the leftover pie at home. With the end of Boxing Day comes the end of Christmas proper, to my mind, although the lights and other decorations will stay up until Twelfth Night. Sitting by the tree on Christmas evening I looked across to see Ben, paper crown shining in the firelight, with a look of utter contentment on his face. From within his folded arms poked an inquisitive little nose, happy to snuggle now that the excitement of meeting one another was done. Dark brown with a white stripe around his middle, Humbug is easily as sweet as his name suggests, and a not a bit of a Christmas Scrooge. Despite all the gadgets and gizmos available in 1931, we knew that a soft and furry friend was just what our boy needed to take him through this final year of exams and upheaval and change. I was, by that point, too tired to get up and find the camera and snap the two of them together, and I don’t think I needed to, anyway. Of all the moments from this very happy Christmas, that’s the image that’ll stay in my mind’s eye forever.— December 27, 1931