CHRISTMAS FOR ME, AS A KID...

Christmas For A Boy Called Peter…

I understand my dad bought this car off Bob Carolgees' family (of Spit the Dog fame...)

Each year was the same,

Or so it seemed.

A hunched pillow-case of white linen,

Bulky, its contents making sharp angles,

Simply begged to be investigated.

And I dreamed

Each year for the same,

Or so it seemed.

Toffees nestling in tins,

More than one ‘selection box’;

A gun in its holster,

Fruit stuffed in socks.

Plastic cowboys, or army figures,

Dinky Toy car reproductions;

Liquorice replicas of smokers’ pipes, 

Metal puzzles with crass instructions.

A fixed set of annuals,

Desperately sought,

But disappointment palpable,

If any weren’t bought…

A pathetic compendium of games,

Sweet cigarettes tight in a packet,

But never a golf club,

Or even a tennis racket…

Painting by numbers was lame,

Truly such a bore;

Always left unfinished,

A long, terrible chore.

I hated those figures

In red rubber moulds quaint,

To be filled with wet plaster,

Then when dry needing paint.

But the horror for me to unwrap,

Causing complete mental destruction,

Was something technical, or mechanical,

Which entailed any kind of construction… 

Yet I guess the most acceptable

Gift of all for me was a ball:

A present simply to kick and head

Against the back-garden wall…

And so each year was the same,

Or so it seems now.

The stripped wrap, of garish colours,

Strewn, the contents making strange piles,

Simply begged to be investigated.

And I dreamed

Next year for the same,

Or so it then seemed…

Pete Ray

December 24th 2015

Yeah, left-half, number 6...

It really did seem to be the same year after year.

It wasn’t, I’m sure.

Charles Buchan’s Soccer Gift Book, the Roy of the Rovers Annual and the Dennis the Menace Annual were the must-have books.

Dinky Toy cars, model soldiers, cowboys and American Native Indians were welcome.

Liquorice and toffee were good. Selection boxes were cop-outs for buyers but those construction kits, such as Bayko, or Meccano were mind wrecking gifts of hell for me. Left-handed, you see… 

(My excuse and nothing will shake that.) 

A ball? Great stuff. 

Presents left in piles and I was outside, whatever the weather, kicking any ball. 

Left-hand son of a gun...

It’s what I did… 

Thanks dad, you forced a natural left-hander to bat right-handed...
Note the Coronation bunting on the clothes-line...
And was the shed once an Anderson shelter?