Port and Lemon and Dirty Jokes

My nan was the type of woman who couldn’t walk to the shop without stopping at least three times along the way to chat to someone she knew. She used to play a card game called Stop the Bus with me for a penny a hand. She kept budgies and goldfish. Whenever I visited, she would give me a glass of sterilised milk because she knew I didn’t like pasteurised. And she loved a dirty joke (think British seaside postcard humour).

At Christmas, Nan would drink port mixed with lemonade. Now I’ve continued the tradition. I have my first glass while decorating the Christmas tree and festive music plays in the background. I have another when I’m wrapping what seems like thousands of presents for my friends and family. I drink it with my turkey on the big day. And I always think of my nan.

Cheers, Nan.

Little Donkey

I know not every one does, but I loved school, especially at Christmas time. One of the traditions I enjoyed the most was sitting in the assembly hall and singing along to carols. Little Donkey stands out in my memory as one of my favourites. Is there anything sweeter than the voices of hundreds of children raised in harmony as they recount the story of the beloved creature who carried Mary into Bethlehem?

Throughout my twenty years as a teacher, I noticed a decline in the amount of time dedicated to singing in assemblies, until, in my last school, it became pretty much non-existent. It saddens me to think that a whole generation of children won’t know the magic of communal singing, especially during this wonderful season of celebration and togetherness.

Chocolate Calendars

There’s nothing quite like the excitement of opening each door of a chocolate Advent calendar when you’re a child. The anticipation after twenty-four hours of waiting, the delight as you identify the festive picture inside (will it be Santa, a robin, a snowman, baby Jesus?) and then finally, finally, popping that small but perfect treat into your already-watering mouth?

The opening of door number one is the beginning of the countdown to Christmas in my family. Forget the appearance of decorations and gifts in supermarket aisles in October, forget the trees and lights that go up on the high streets in November. No, it’s the start of December and the opening of that first door. There’s something magical about it. There was for me three-and-a-half decades ago, and I see it in my children now. How joyous it is to be able to re-create the traditions that meant so much to you throughout your own childhood!

Chestnuts in Spain

Between the ages of twenty four to twenty six, I lived on the Costa del Sol with my future husband. I taught at an international school and spent my free time on the beach or mooching around the pueblos. Sometimes I sat in the sunshine drinking café con leche for hours on end.

In winter, the temperature only dipped as low as 12 degrees C (around 54 degrees F). This was nothing to me – I was still wearing my UK summer jacket while the Spaniards were going around in scarves and gloves! One of my fondest memories is of walking back from my evening language class each week and buying a paper bag of hot chestnuts from a street vendor. I didn’t get to experience much of Navidad in Spain because I’d fly home to spend the season with family, but man do I remember the smell and taste of those chestnuts!

A Christmas Carol

I read Dickens’ story of the miserly Scrooge and his journey to redemption every year. I watch as many film adaptations as I can and love the warm, fuzzy feeling the ending always leaves me with (or is that the port and lemon?). Of course, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is terrifying, but isn’t that the mark of a good story, to take you on a rollercoaster ride of emotions before the oh-so-satisfying resolution?

Say a Little Prayer

The first time I ate Christmas dinner with my Catholic in-laws, I lifted my cutlery ready to dig in to my favourite meal of the year but was stopped by my father-in-law’s voice as he commenced a prayer of thanks-giving. I hadn’t been to church since childhood and even then we hadn’t prayed like this at home. I felt a little bemused and uncomfortable.

But as the sincere words of gratitude, love and blessing flowed over me, I realised what a gift it was. I now look forward to his annual prayer; it reminds me of what’s important and brings me a sense of peace. Christmas Day just wouldn’t be the same without it.

The Gift of Love

My aunt’s husband passed away in his fifties. He had a brain tumour. She’s in her seventies now and, of course, still misses him terribly. I recently found out that she buys herself a present every Christmas and pretends that it’s from him. It’s one of the most poignant expressions of love I’ve ever known.

Holding Hands

I debated whether or not to include this final snippet, but here goes:

I won’t go into the details of how this came about but this week I held the hands of a lady who was living on the streets. They were grimy and cold. As a teen, I used to feel awkward and a little fearful walking past homeless people; I’d avert my gaze and feel intense relief when I was out of their vicinity. Then I progressed to politely and apologetically shaking my head at their request for money and subsequently feeling incredible guilt. Then to donating money to charities like Shelter and Crisis, but still not really engaging with the people they were helping. Then something happened to me.

It was 2019 and I experienced an episode of psychosis, a complete break with reality that was absolutely terrifying and led to a prolonged period of anxiety and depression. It can happen to anyone and affects around one in a hundred people in their lifetime. Again, I won’t go into too many details but let’s just say that it completely turned my world upside down. I learned that I couldn’t trust my own mind, I lost my confidence, and I lived in fear of it happening again. I still do to some extent.

Long story short, I eventually got a diagnosis of bipolar disorder and, after lots of trial and error, the correct medication was prescribed. But this was after a period of disassociation during which I left my family.

What’s this got to do with homelessness, you may wonder. Well, the episode and what followed completely changed my perspective on the stability of life. I learned how quickly your sense of security can unravel. I learned how few steps there are between having it all and having nothing. Fortunately, I didn’t end up homeless but, looking back, I can see how easily it could happen to people who don’t have a support network.

The reasons for homelessness are complex and varied. I understand this. And I understand the arguments for and against giving and interacting on the streets. I’m not advocating for it nor am I intending to preach. I’m just sharing my personal story, because if any time of the year makes me feel gratitude for what I have and empathy for those who have so little, it’s Christmas.

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas and a happy, healthy and successful 2025. May you create your own cherished memories with your precious loved ones, may you find peace if you’re struggling, may you experience light and love and, yes, that little bit of magic.