Tony Quarrington

1.

The seven year old boy

In crew cut and tiny shorts

Sits cross-legged on

The chilly wooden floor of

The school assembly hall,

Singing, or rather miming

Along to his favourite carol.

Little Jesus, sweetly sleep,

Do not stir,

We will lend a coat of fur,

We will rock you,

Rock you, rock you

We will rock you,

Rock you, rock you

See the fur to keep you warm.

Snugly round your tiny form.

2.

As the clock strikes two

On a cold Christmas morning,

A short, portly figure,

Fuelled by Watney’s Red Barrel,

Creeps up creaking stairs,

And through half-closed bedroom door

Of the half-sleeping boy

To leave a bulging white paper sack,

Complimenting himself on fooling his son

That he is a certain someone else.

But the child has known better

These past two years,

And through half-open eyes

Perpetuates the falsehood.

3.

In the snow-sprinkled back yard,

The thrill of Meccano set,

Beano and Dandy Annuals

And Cadbury’s selection box

Still fresh in his giddy mind,

The boy is struck between the eyes

By a neatly rolled and deadly fastball

Flung by the same fake Santa

That visited him seven hours before.

But there is neither time for crying

Nor testing the capacity

Of the new chemistry set

To blow up the house

As the main event approaches.

4.

Three tables of differing design,

Height, width and degree of wonkiness

Are wedged together with an

Equally eccentric assortment of chairs

Looted from every room in the house,

Fifteen pews laid for a congregation

Spanning three generations.

The grandfather, prior to the

Ceremonial carving of the turkey,

Leads the toast to his wife

And four daughters-in-law

For the preparation of the feast.

Secretly, he prays there will be

Enough of the bird left over

To lie with his beloved piccalilli

In sandwiches he will take for lunch

At Chatham Dockyard

The day after Boxing Day.

5.

As the tables are cleared away,

The children squabble over

The sixpences and threepenny bits

Found in their Christmas pudding,

While the cooks sit down to squint

At Billy Smart’s Circus

On the seventeen inch

Black and white television,

Precariously perched beneath

The curtained budgerigar cage,

And husbands are grudgingly

Despatched to the kitchen

For washing up duties.

6.

The family singalong takes centre stage

When a favourite uncle, worse for wear

From a cocktail of cheap fizz,

Gassy beer and Bols advocaat,

Leads the traditional rendition

Of the “music master”

Who “comes from down your way”.

The children wrestle weariness

As they pi-a-pi-a-pi-a-no

And umpa-umpa-umpa-pa

To their heart’s content,

Their giggling intensified

By the bandleader flicking

A loose premolar with his tongue

In time to the music.

7.

Wives ascend the stairs to sleep,

But only after mock protests

At having to prepare Irish coffees

For their sozzled spouses,

A ritual as venerable as

The monarch’s festive message

Or overdone brussel sprouts.

8.

As the boy finally succumbs

To slumberous thoughts,

He dreams of the highlight to come –

The Boxing Day football match.

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