12:11pm Wednesday 16th December 2009
By Sharon Griffiths
Gone are the days of costume dramas as the column looks forward to a grown-up Christmas
DO you know the best thing about a grown-up Christmas? No costumes for the school play. Oh bliss.
And yes, of course, I miss the heart-trembling, eye-welling moments of the tinies lisping out the eternal story. Twenty years on I can still remember Senior Son’s lines as a Roman soldier. Or the year Smaller Son was God – which made me the Mother of God, so a bit of respect out there please.
But the joy, the pride and emotion were always overwhelmed by awful thoughts of the costume. That dreaded note from the teacher. Especially hard for those such as I, with no time, no sewing machine, no skill and absolutely no idea of where to begin. Panic! Christmas ruined before it had even begun.
Did teachers realise what terror they instilled? Of course, they did.
Like parents’ night, it was their small bit of revenge.
The Roman soldier wore a red mini skirt for £2 off the market. God wore a Victorian nightie I’d bought from a junk shop in my student days. Shepherds wore over-sized T-shirts and tea towels. And a king once wore my mother’s best Chinese embroidered silk dressing gown, which did the double job of sweeping the church aisle as it trailed behind him.
But at least I could enjoy Christmas.
But then there was the year of the crocodile. Crocodile? I yelped. Where do I begin? Seeing the blind panic in my eyes, teacher relented. She would make the crocodile mask herself, she said, as long as I could supply a long green T-shirt and green tights. Job done.
Fair play to the teacher, the crocodile mask was superb. It lived on a bookcase in our sitting room for years until it finally crumbled after being hit by too many flying footballs.
I got away lightly. That same year a friend had to make a camel and a hedgehog costume for her children, while another had to make a robot – which involved lots of cardboard boxes and industrial sizes cans of silver spray paint. Not to mention two whole precious evenings.
This year shops are full of readymade costumes for nativities and pantos. Lots of shepherds and kings and fairy princesses. Apparently, a sort of designer label one upmanship has crept in among the crowd gathered in the stable. Purists are very derogatory about the trend.
And yes, I admit, there is something about the very amateurishness of the costumes that is so endearing and adds to the charm. And not a lot that an expensive costume adds except for a slightly unpleasant point scoring. But maybe the ready-made costume is just the equivalent of the bought mince pies or the shop cake. Parents aren’t rich, just hectic and hopeless.
Because if I could have just nipped down to Debenhams and bought a crocodile costume, I’d have been the first in the queue to slap down the plastic.
Many and wondrous are the joys of Christmas – but making costumes was never one of them. Especially for a crocodile.
TIGER Woods says he’s taking a break from golf to concentrate on his marriage. It’s not golf he needs a break from...
THE Queen had to sit through the Royal Variety Performance – goodness knows what she made of Lady Gaga, below, – or what Prince Philip thought of Miley Cyrus’s hot pants.
Meanwhile, Prince Harry and his semi-detached girlfriend Chelsy Davy turned up in the audience at the X Factor final, diplomatically sharing their support between Joe and Stacey.
So there’s the answer. Ditch the excruciating ordeal of the royal Variety Performance which is long past its sell-by date and let the royals watch X Factor instead.
Even better – let Prince Philip be a judge. Now that would sort out Simon Cowell.
BRILLIANT move by Ekaterina Ivanovna, the 21-year-old who’s had an 18- month affair with Rolling Stone Ronnie Wood, 62, pictured.
The affair started off like a fairy tale, she said, but when they moved into a castle with a tower, he turned into the Goblin King.
See, she has cast Wood as the evil, old villain and herself as the innocent fairy princess.
And we’ll all never be able to look at Ronnie Wood again without thinking of the wicked little Goblin King...
IN research into the best sausages, local favourites from Debbie and Andrews – who live near Bedale – came out as some of the best, along with those from the Black Farmer.
Those two are our favourite brands of packaged sausages – not just because they taste good, but also because they don’t spit and set fire to the grill.
I never thought cheap sausages were much of an economy if, in the cooking process, they burned the house down.
THANKS to mobiles, I’m well used to the boys ringing me from the middle of supermarkets, wanting recipe ideas, or from pubs asking for the time of the next train home or an answer to settle a drunken bet.
But last week Smaller Son rang from Abu Dhabi, disorientated after much too good a lunch and a subsequent nap.
“What time is it please?”
“Half past three.”
“No, what time is it in Abu Dhabi?”
“You’re the one in Abu Dhabi. You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Can you Google it for me?”
So I dutifully Googled the time in Abu Dhabi and told him the answer.
How weird is that?
Once upon a time when sons left home, they disappeared without a word for years and years, until maybe one day they turned up with a suntan and a beard, and maybe a parrot in a cage. What they didn’t do, was go 3,000 miles and ring their mum when they wanted to know the time.
Only in the 21st Century...
Dear Sharon,
MY niece, Anna, was a typical little girl who loved pink. Everything had to be pink – clothes, room, toys and bike. Birthday cakes were always pink and my sister once even tried making pink
sandwiches for her. My brotherin- law is a farmer and Anna always seemed too pink and dainty for farm life.
Needless to say, Anna grew out of pink, went to agricultural college and is now working in Devon looking after a large dairy herd.
She spends her days in boots and boiler suits.
My husband’s nephew was one of those boys who spent all his time playing very violent computer games. He is now studying theology and considering becoming a priest.
I think the Pinkstinks campaign is wasting its time.
Most little girls go through a pink stage and most little boys like fighting. Best to get it out of their system when they’re young!
Kate Collins, Northallerton Dear Sharon,
YOU are right about childhood not always being fun. I was the oldest of eight children and never went anywhere without some of the little ones to take care of. I was also expected to help my mother
in the house and with the babies. I didn’t have a childhood as I spent most of it acting as mother and nursemaid and always envied my friends who had more freedom.
Nancy Johnson, Darlington
IN research into the best sausages, local favourites from Debbie and Andrews – who live near Bedale – came out as some of the best, along with those from the Black Farmer.
Those two are our favourite brands of packaged sausages – not just because they taste good, but also because they don’t spit and set fire to the grill.
I never thought cheap sausages were much of an economy if, in the cooking process, they burned the house down.
THANKS to mobiles, I’m well used to the boys ringing me from the middle of supermarkets, wanting recipe ideas, or from pubs asking for the time of the next train home or an answer to settle a drunken bet.
But last week Smaller Son rang from Abu Dhabi, disorientated after much too good a lunch and a subsequent nap.
“What time is it please?”
“Half past three.”
“No, what time is it in Abu Dhabi?”
“You’re the one in Abu Dhabi. You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Can you Google it for me?”
So I dutifully Googled the time in Abu Dhabi and told him the answer.
How weird is that?
Once upon a time when sons left home, they disappeared without a word for years and years, until maybe one day they turned up with a suntan and a beard, and maybe a parrot in a cage. What they didn’t do, was go 3,000 miles and ring their mum when they wanted to know the time.
Only in the 21st Century...
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