A Christmas story
Posted Monday 5th January 2015 By Ericka Waller
So my youngest has her Christmas party at pre-school today. She was asked to dress festively, so she chose to be a Dalmatian. There was a list of food needed for the party blu-tacked to the nursery door. I put my name down next to the (shop bought) sausage rolls and then put my friend’s names down for sandwiches. Ho ho ho.
Our old Santa resigned, which was just as well. He would come straight from the allotment, wearing a short Santa shirt-dress (velcro flapping), over jeans and muddy wellies, his steamed up glasses attached comically to a threadbare cotton wool beard.
I put my husband down to be Santa this year. He got me back by putting me down as his helper, and bought me a sexy Santa’s helper suit to wear for the occasion.
I will tuck the frilly short skirt down as I tell the story of Christmas Eve in Brighton, and then I will be leading the singing, as the normal singing-leader has buggered off to Mauritius for the festive season. Cheers!
Once I have helped Santa hand out hastily-wrapped presents, I will have to whip off my mini skirt (think Bucks Fizz people) and leap into my Christmas jumper (also bought by the husband. It has a fat tummy attached, which, when wobbled, shouts “Ho ho ho, Meeeerry Christmas”).
“Suits you love” he said when I tried it on. I won’t say what I responded with because it’s not very nice, but it might have been some of the lyrics from the song Fairytale of New York by The Pogues about being a cheap lousy ******.
My daughter does not want to sing the songs she has been taught at pre-school. She wants to sing the songs from her sister’s nativity play, which they have been rehearsing non-stop for the last month.
This is not good. They are a non denominational pre-school and therefore cannot do a religious Christmas. Fingers crossed she does not burst into: “Don’t worry Mary, you will have God’s son” instead of “When Santa got stuck up the chimney”. She has very loud voice.
I cannot wait to see the children, yawning and nose picking their way through the concert. The joy on their faces when they hear the bells which announce Father Christmas’ arrival cannot be beaten.
There is something about a clumsy pre-school Christmas that, for one second, takes you right back to being a kid yourself. The moment is fleeting, but magical.
Anyhoo, I’m off to wrestle myself into lycra. Merry Christmas all.