My family tree has exceedingly stunted branches - one boozy, Irish and Catholic, the other teetotal, English and tepidly Protestant. Childhood Christmases were therefore a muddle of Orange and Green attempts at festivity, neither of which were much fun. My worst Christmas was NOT the one at which I was served a slice of my own finger after impetuously reaching for a piece of turkey while it was being carved.
Writing this posting has involved a struggle with a ghastly, long-suppressed childhood memory: the obligation to write, on our return to primary school after the Christmas holidays, an essay on "What I Did in the Christmas Holidays".
All around me my classmates propped sunburned forearms on their desks, licked their Black Beauty pencils, and scribbled happily with effortless Total Holiday Recall, while I sat paralysed by Complete Holiday Amnesia. The little I remembered was too shabby or too shameful to reveal and so I wrote accounts of purely imaginary holidays.
Holidays which didn't involve boredom, tears, divided loyalties or a father who blundered into stationery objects when he'd had too much to drink. These lying essays were probably my first formal forays into a genre which now has a respectable name: creative non-fiction.
All around me my classmates propped sunburned forearms on their desks, licked their Black Beauty pencils, and scribbled happily with effortless Total Holiday Recall, while I sat paralysed by Complete Holiday Amnesia. The little I remembered was too shabby or too shameful to reveal and so I wrote accounts of purely imaginary holidays.
Holidays which didn't involve boredom, tears, divided loyalties or a father who blundered into stationery objects when he'd had too much to drink. These lying essays were probably my first formal forays into a genre which now has a respectable name: creative non-fiction.
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