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.
Tony Quarrington 