Memories of yesteryear - Christmas in a new house

Memories of yesteryear - Christmas in a new house

By Jonathan Kavanagh

Swords is still a small rural town as the not so swinging sixties draw to a close. But change is on the way as even the world’s greatest futurologist cannot not predict the expansion to come. As Neil Armstrong leaves his footprints in the lunar dust, we too take a giant leap for mankind. We vacate the antiquated gate lodge and move into a newly built council house a few miles from Swords town. As Christmas approaches, I have a serious concern. Our new dwelling does not have an open chimney breast. How will Santa get in? “I’ll leave a key out for him”, my mother reassures me. Meanwhile, the culinary event of the year, operation Christmas pudding begins. My mother builds up the ingredients on a weekly basis; currants, raisins, mixed peel etc. The receipt also contains a bottle of stout and a generous helping of whiskey. We have a new neighbour; a disciple of modern gadgets who takes on the unenviably task of dragging us into the twentieth century. She tells my mother that cooking the pudding in a piece of calico cloth belongs to the era of the penny farthing bicycle and loans her a state-of-the-art bowl. With all the suspicion of the Road Runner viewing an invitation to Wile E Coyote’s barbeque, the new cooking method is reluctantly embarked upon. As always, boiling the pudding is a nine-hour marathon, producing enough steam to power the Titanic. Alas, like the great ship, the pudding is also on course for disaster. The next stage of the process involves removing the annual treat from the cloth and rapping it up to mature. Horror reveals itself; the much-acclaimed bowl has a design flaw. A hidden inner rim, rendering it impossible to remove its contents in one piece. My mother, a god-fearing woman who never uses bad language, expels expletives that would make Mrs Brown blush as she scoops out her pride and joy with a wooden spoon. A valiant attempt to reassemble it has all the success of Mr Magoo trying to thread a needle. Like Humpty Dumpty, all the king’s horses and all the kings’ men can’t put it back together again. On a happier note, Santa finds the key and leaves me my dream present – a pocket transistor radio complete with one ear piece.

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