The Last Ditch by Tom Paine

This will be my first Christmas as a Christian since 1969. The department stores’ schmaltzy advertisements have begun. The half-hearted street decorations are put up by our communist council. I am looking at it through different eyes.

The affection most atheists have for it is one of the few remaining markers of Britain’s status. I loved it during my Godless decades. It shows that Britain is, if not a Christian country any more, a country formed by Christian thinking. That has to be a good thing. Christians should be tolerant. They should even be indulgent of the unChristian ways in which our fellow-citizens choose to celebrate. I do wonder if this is what it feels like to Hindus when unprincipled vote-grubbers suck up to them at Diwali, or Muslims at Eid. But I digress.

It will be only my second Christmas since the birth of Miss P the youngest, my beloved granddaughter. As she was born on December 18th 2024, she wasn’t paying much attention last year. Last weekend we pre-celebrated her first birthday. My aged Mum managed a real trek from North Wales to the South Coast. This was significant given her frailty. She wanted to see her great-granddaughter again. This visit was as close to the birthday as could be fitted into the family schedule.

Watching candles be lit on Miss P. the Youngest’s cake and hearing “Happy Birthday” sung to her by the assembled family was fascinating. I watched her face as it all happened and she was fascinated too – and perhaps a little bemused. She is soaking up knowledge of the world at an enormous rate. Knowing that all this, so strange for her the first time, will be normal, d.v., in her future was special.

She pays wide-eyed, thoughtful attention to everything new. She points to things and people named to her. I find it hard not to cry when her mum asks “Where’s Grandad?” and she points immediately at me. When my sister cuddled her and said “Look, Grandad’s jealous”, she smiled and reached for me. If she grasps the concept of jealousy at 11 months, Christmas will be well within her reach.

I remember my childhood Christmases very well. Mum took it all – in characteristic style – very seriously indeed. No tradition was neglected. Although we were poor in my early days, our Christmas chicken meant as much as any bourgeois turkey. It was as valued as an aristocratic goose. A chubby uncle showed up on Christmas Eve as Santa. I never twigged. In fact I didn’t know which chubby uncle it was until recently. I’d never thought to wonder. To be honest, I wish I’d never asked. I prefer to remember him as Santa.

I remember a discussion about Christmas in English class with Mr Williams, a big influence on my teenage life. He was the teacher who set me on my career path. Exasperated with my constant challenging of everything he said, he told me, “You should be a Jesuit or a lawyer.” He shared his thoughts on what Christmas meant to him. Then, he asked us to write about what it meant to us. We laughed when he spoke about Father Christmas. Asked why, we said we were too old to believe in him. I will never forget his answer.

At Christmas, people take time they wouldn’t normally take to greet each other. They give gifts. They smile more and they’re nicer. There’s a special spirit in the air. I choose to call that spirit “Father Christmas” and, yes, I still believe in him.

I was already an atheist by the time I heard him say that. However, some remnant of Christianity in me prevented me from sneering. What he said made sense and I liked him for it.

Best of all were the Christmases with my daughters as small children. I loved seeing all the festive traditions afresh through their innocent eyes. I envy Miss P. the Elder the chance to do the same for my granddaughter this Christmas. I won’t be there on the day itself. That privilege falls to the full set of grandparents who live nearby. However, I plan to trek from North Wales to the South Coast to spend time with her.

I shall spend Christmas with my mum. She’s beyond the production of feasts so we’ll go to my sister’s house for that. I plan to go with them to church for the first time this year.

My sister’s fixing up a new house she’s bought. When it’s done next Summer, mum will move back to her childhood home town in Cheshire. She will live in a purpose-built granny annex. So this will be the last Christmas in the home my late dad built for us all back in 1965. The chubby uncle visited the house. Until very recently, the 1950s artificial tree mum bought for my very first Christmas was brought out every year. There’s no cause for it to be a sad time. The house performed exactly the purpose Dad intended for it as a perfect family home – not for your family maybe, but for ours. So not sad, but poignant, for sure.

Life moves on and the endless quest for meaning continues. One of the joys of Christmas, whenever and why-ever it’s celebrated, is a brief pause in that quest just to be with family. I am guilty in my lonely old age of over-thinking. That special spirit my long-ago English teacher talked about still walks and – just for a while – stills all dark and negative thoughts.

I hope he’ll be in your Christmas too.