Christmases Past

The very first thing that I learnt when I came to live in the UK was: Never use the word "pants" when refering to your trousers, as this can lead to embarrassing situations. For example, on a windy day, saying "I'm glad I wore pants!" (as opposed to a skirt) implies that you would typically Go Commando. On the other hand, if something is described as being pants, it means it's going horribly wrong, as in "This weather is pants!".....which brings me nicely onto the second thing I learnt.

British people have a love/hate relationship with the weather in general, and in particular with snow. It doesn’t actually snow very often (at least not down in the south), so there is great excitement when the white stuff does make a rare appearance. That excitement is pretty quickly replaced with collective annoyance as the country rapidly grinds to a halt....airports close, the transport system packs up shop and Davina McCall is forced to spend the night in her car, her fingers frozen to her iPhone as she bravely “tweets” through adversity to reassure loving fans she is still alive.

Nonetheless, snow at Christmas time is highly desired... but most years, the bookies profit while the nation’s hopes of a Dickensian scene are dashed. This year, expectations are greater than usual ...the snow that fell three days ago is still lying on the ground with more predicted to be on the way. Will this be the year we finally get to experience a "white Christmas"...or will all our dreams turn to slush?

After growing up in the southern hemisphere, where Christmas lands slap bang in the middle of summer, it took me a couple of years to get used to this reversal of seasons. Christmas days of my childhood were likely spent gathered around the pool, and lunch was typically cold ham or chicken and salads, or a barbeque/braai, depending on your cultural leanings. My family often spent Christmas on holiday in South Africa, on the southern KwaZulu-Natal coast. For landlocked Zimbos, going “Down South” was lekker, man... a holiday of sun, surf and sand and the opportunity for a shopping spree. In the early 1980s, everything was scarce in Zimboland...toothpaste, light bulbs, toilet paper (I shit you not!). People horded basic goods and everyone knew someone who had just returned from South Africa and was selling tins of sardines or Oil of Ulay at inflated prices.

My parents had a Citroen DS,  like this one....

Equipped with a massive boot, spacious back seat and hydropneumatic self-leveling suspension, the DS was perfect for carting goodies back over the border. Laden down with all our Christmas presents and a year’s supply of tinned fish, dried fruit and toiletries, it’s a wonder the weight of the car didn’t break Alfred Beit Bridge, landing us all in the croc-infested waters of the Limpopo.

One of the most traumatic events of my early life occurred during one such shopping spree, at a large department store in Durban. My parents went off to buy our Christmas presents, leaving me in the care of my older brother....only he wandered away in search of Scalextric cars and I was suddenly all alone.

Terrified, I started running up and down the shop aisles desperately looking for my Mummy....and ran straight into the arms of a burly shop assistant. He took me, screaming and struggling, to the store’s office, where the store manager tried to find out my name so that he could send out a message to my parents over the PA system. I was offered bags of sweets, but I was having none of it.....didn’t my mom always say I was not to talk to strangers? Well this candy-touting dude looked pretty strange to me and I took my mom’s instructions to heart (at the age of 6, I punched the doctor who was trying to examine me as my mom also said I was never to let anyone touch me).

Eventually, the store manager made an announcement that a little girl with long dark hair, wearing pink shorts and a purple top, and refusing to talk is looking for her mom and dad. Luckily, my parents immediately realised that little girl was me and were over to fetch me in seconds. As for my errant brother, he was unperturbed by my absence and then highly disappointed that I’d turned down the offer of unlimited sweets.

Aren’t brothers just the best?