The excitement was great here on December 23rd last, when a short piece of mine was read out by Gay Byrne on RTE LyricFM, one of the stations of Ireland’s state broadcaster. The piece was one I wrote and submitted in response to a competition on Gay’s Sunday Serenade show, asking listeners to submit writing on the subject of “Christmas Memories”. The other day, I was the happy recipient of my prize: a box of goodies including a CD by The Puppini Sisters and Ardal O’Hanlon’s latest DVD. Nothing like a belated Christmas present to banish the January blues!
A recording of the show is at
http://dynamic.rte.ie/quickaxs/209-rte-lyr-sundayserenade-2007-12-23.smil.
Here’s the text of the piece.
Christmas Memories
Christmas Day in our house begins with the thudding of my brothers’ feet as they race up the hall. I am the eldest, and beyond the stage of jumping up at the crack of dawn to see what Santa brought – but somehow I am never too far behind my brothers either.
Feigning nonchalance, I push open the sitting-room door and glance over to the tree, where my brothers are already ripping brightly-coloured paper off gifts. Yes, there is my pile, identifiable as always by the green glint of a Cadbury’s Mint Crisp placed invitingly on top. Santa never forgets.
The smell of roasting turkey is already beginning to waft throughout the house. My mother in her turquoise dressing-gown comes to watch, leaning against the door with a smile. My Dad arrives up in his pyjamas and gestures towards the empty glass on the hearth. “Would you look at that! Santa drank all his Guinness again.” He and my mother exchange a secret smile. I am nearly ten, and I see.
I am thrilled with my presents, but my brothers’ noisy excitement gets a bit much for me and I wander into the kitchen. My parents are busying themselves with the preparations for Christmas dinner, chatting and laughing. My favourite carol is playing on the radio and I stand beside the stereo to listen. I have always had a vague notion that it is really is angels singing this hymn, urging everyone to hearken and honour the new-born king.
Suddenly something catches my eye, sticking out from behind the stereo. It is wrapping paper, with the exact same pattern as Santa’s. I start to think how strange it is that they have the same paper in the North Pole as we do here. Then I look over at my parents, oblivious as they work by the oven, and hear the shouts and laughter still coming from the sitting-room. A new wisdom comes over me.
“Mammy and Daddy, could you be quiet for a minute? I want to hear the end of Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
I hear out the final chorus, proudly tucking my new knowledge away inside me.
(c) Orla Shanaghy 2008
