Christmastime and the past festive times are snugly bedfellows. As parents we try to bring, or avoid, our Dickensian ghosts of Christmas past. The husband lived in a huge house and the family Christmas tree was tall enough to reach two floors – the living area had a galley that ran around the top. High enough for many a childhood accident, and to put the angel on top of the tree I suppose.

Christmas Day involved three trips to church and presents were given out by Pop after the Queen’s Speech by the warmth of the fireside.

Meanwhile in the shires, our new build (updated every year or so) was without a fireplace. Father Christmas was clever enough to dump a Santa sack filled with toys at the end of our beds. Presents from family and friends were neatly wrapped, but for some reason (economics and time probably) my practical Dad decided not to wrap the gifts from him and Mum. There were a lot of them and this decision made access easy, after midnight when the man in red left the house. Shouts and the turning on of lights regularly disturbed the remaining night until dawn arrived and we all gave up.

Our tree was made of plastic, and green and silver tinsel. It was placed on a table to give it stature. Dates and nuts gathered round its red plastic pot.

No Queen’s speech for us. Top of the Pops was king. Waiting to hear who’d made the top slot in the charts before lunch. Slade and Wizard dancing energetically on a tiny stage. Looking back at the disc jockeys who presented it our 70’s childhoods has a dark side now.

In the present, no pun intended, we have our traditions on the other side of the globe. Stockings on the mantelpiece after dark on Christmas Eve. Gaudy tinsel blowing in Queensland’s humid breeze. The real tree I insist on, although huge, not as big as the husband’s childhood one, the bigger presents jostle for space under it. It took me and the kids years to talk the husband into opening the presents earlier in the day. Especially since the Queen’s Speech isn’t shown until bedtime.

We have Christmas pop songs playing from late November, our family lunch out, our Boxing Day cinema date. And on Christmas Eve I’m massaging butter under the skin of the turkey, muttering under my breath and listening to shouts of joy coming from the pool.  Even the dog’s in there.

Christmas morning I’m cooking a lunch which really belongs in the Northern Hemisphere. We play board games after lunch but now the boys are almost grown. Son no.1 has a girlfriend and they will make their own traditions. I remember the husband, when he was just the boyfriend, and our Christmas Eve tradition of cheese fondue and Drop Dead Fred on the telly. I implore my kids to spend at least one future Christmas in the colder climes. There’s nothing quite like it.