Christmas morning, 1987. A cold one, I recall. Condensation on the windows, and a hint of your breath in the air. Dark and dreary the morning might have been – indeed, it was probably still the middle of the night – but that didn’t matter. Santa had arrived!
As my father laid the fire and cleaned the bould Mr Claus’ footprints from the hearth, I vividly remember tearing open the presents. The yields were modest. A yellow-covered hardback storybook; tales from which I still recall over three decades later. A black-haired, floral-bedecked doll, immediately named Caroline, who would remain a loyal companion for years, despite the subsequent subjecting of her lustrous curls to some unfortunate butcherings behind my mother’s back. And a couple of coloured plastic necklaces. That was all. But it was enough.
An Cailín Rua 