Written by Yup. My favourite Christmas memories include how Dad is allergic to those paper crowns that come out of Christmas crackers. Let me explain.
Every year, we’d wait eagerly for Christmas lunch – even willing to miss the Christmas Top Of The Pops – and watch with delight as my Mum insisted on pulling a cracker with my Dad and we’d all laugh as he started to heave and blow, claiming that the hat was constricting his blood flow and he was in danger of passing out … all until he took it off a minute later and we’d all grin through the rest of dinner.
It’s not a great story and, as I’ve explained it to people over the years, it gets smiles rather than laughs.
Except from our family. As we sit around and retell it, we’re in tears. Impressions, theories, talking and laughing over each other and this inevitably leads into more stories – my Dad being from Yorkshire inevitably being the butt of numerous “Yorkshireman” jokes (for the record, my favourite involves a sculptor commissioned to make a solid gold statue of a dog and ends with the punchline, “Nay lad! Not eighteen carrot … I want ‘im chewin’ a bone …”, you can read more here) – again to uncontrollable laughter around the table.
Or the many, many stories of my sister (the youngest) subjected to the usual teasing from older brothers and hearing her [adult] explanations of what she probably meant. Once we’d been driving to a family wedding and she, aged about 4, suddenly shouted, “A wedding!”. We replied as one, “A wedding?” And complete confusion took over my sister as she stared through the car windows and excitedly asked, “Where?”
Or my brother refusing the last sausage, the last potato, the last swede, the last cabbage … and then taking it quickly before anyone else had the chance. All except the last sprout that never found a home.
These stories only come to life when retold and relived. And then they burst into life and become infectious. I wish I had more of them and could listen to them whenever I needed a reminder of my family.
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