I have posted on the ‘Best Christmas Present’ thread about the set of doll’s clothes knitted by our dear maid Ivy, and the doll’s house, which no, my brother had not kept under his national service barracks’ bed, and brought home on the bus.
But this thread has got me reflecting on some other Christmases.
In the early 80s I was a Prison Education Officer. Naturally my DSs were not normally allowed in, but each Christmas there was a Carol Service in the huge prison chapel, to which staff’s families were invited.
My boys loved all the palaver of the locking and unlocking as we passed through the prison corridors.
Virtually all the inmates attended in their best ironed uniforms, and sang and listened respectfully as they awaited the highlight of the ceremony, the Salvation Army Choir, mainly women with their stockings and tambourines.
‘Cor, that’s more like it!’ was the general sentiment, and there was an un-religious, very enthusiastic, round of applause.
Some years later:
In the 1990s DH and I sometimes went skiing over Christmas without the lads, who were then in their twenties.
One year, all seemed well, regular phone calls home, “Yes everything’s fine, Mum”.
Until we got a phone call as we waited at the airport to return.
On Christmas Eve, DSs, plus girlfriends and assorted pals had gathered at our house.
An arm wrestling contest ensued.
Each DS was determined not to let the other win. Suddenly there was a huge cracking noise.
DS’s GF thought it was the table leg breaking. It was of course DS1’s femur.
So off to hospital, arm set the next day, Christmas Day , (reset later in the week 
) Little presents distributed by the hospital’s volunteers.
They agreed not to tell us, as there was nothing we could do, and would only worry (too true). Why they then decided it was a good ideas to do so when we were in the airport, no idea.
We flew home worrying, but all was indeed well if you can call a serious fracture ‘well’.