Twas The Week Before Christmas - Guest Post - Day 5

The last of the Gemma's today, just to confuse you all a little more, we seem to be multiplying. 

Gem should be crowned the Charity Shop (Cherry Tree) Queen.  You will totally understand why if you check out her blog Treasures From The Cherry Tree (her name for the charity shop)  She never fails to make me laugh so it is usually best to avoid stopping by at her place with a cuppa, well unless you want it splurted across your computer screen - trust me it has happened to me in the past, I have learnt my lesson the hard way!  After reading today's post I'm sure you will understand me a little bit more.  So here she is the lovely Gem from Treasures From The Cherry Tree.

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The Night I Saw Father Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas and I was ten years old. I remember feeling the excitement as the tingle of expectation shivered down my spine. After the carol service and mince pies by the fire, I kissed my parents and siblings goodnight and went to sleep with my eyes shut tight.

Around midnight, something made me wake. I heard a noise on the landing outside my bedroom. It was Him, I knew it. Should I leap out of bed and ask for a ride on his sleigh? Could I pat his reindeer and gently feed them a carrot, while burying my head in their soft, smooth fur? Could I hug Saint Nick, marvel at his rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes and then boast to my friends that I'd actually met him?

I didn't know what to do. I was literally quaking in my bed. I heard the rustling of wrapping paper, footsteps padded up and down (I remember thinking "I really hope he hasn't trodden mud in the house, Mum will go mad") and I couldn't breathe.

Slowly, and very quietly, my bedroom door opened. I shut my eyes as tight as I could, and held my breath, for fear he would not fill my stocking with gifts if he knew I was peeking. I lay as still as I could and heard a sackful of presents land swiftly at the foot of my bed.

Then Father Christmas left the room but I heard him still outside my door. He had more to bring to me, I could feel it.

 I heard him creep back into my room but dropped something heavy and he said, in an exasperated whisper: "Oh BUGGER it."

This wasn't right. Father Christmas didn't swear... I slowly opened one eye, as carefully as I could.

And lo and behold, in front of me, picking up the doll which he had dropped from a shiny new pram, was my dad in a pair of Y-fronts.

At first I thought he must have been helping Father Christmas with all my presents, but slowly yet surely, realisation dawned on my disappointed, naive little face. My illusion was rudely shattered. 

What was worse I don't remember - realising that Santa didn't exist, or seeing my dad swearing in his kecks - but I didn't let on for another year or two as knew my lovely dad would be deeply disappointed.

Rule number one - Santa NEVER drops a present, and more importantly, he certainly NEVER uses rude words.

Here I am on that said Christmas, with my brother Robert and sister Anna.  I loved that doll and pram for many years.

My love for secondhand and charity shop items probably stems from photos like these, taken one Christmas (probably that fateful Christmas). Most of our clothes were secondhand and none of us had a problem with it. We simply re-loved clothes that other people had fallen out of love with and proudly wore them. My mum also made a lot of our clothes, see we were thrifty all those years ago too!

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Thanks Gem.  I just love this story, it really made me laugh but could you imagine as a small child realising that Father Christmas was infact your dad and on Christmas Eve, Gem that must have been devastating.  Still thank you so much for sharing your story with us, it really is hillarious and so well told.

Love Gem x x x x