Peter Rhodes on shotguns, foxes and a Santa long, long ago
The first Christmas I remember was in 1955, in the days when everything happened in black-and-white and the world was so strange and new and deeply improbable that when they told you Father Christmas lived in a submarine at the bottom of the sea, you believed them.
So off we set from our home in Kington to a department store in Hereford. The store's lift had been decorated with cut-out starfish and octopuses and as the cage descended we passed sea snakes and chests full of pirate treasure. I dare say it had all been done with a bit of cardboard and sticky tape but the effect on two young brothers from a one-horse market town, was magical.
I forget the actual moment of meeting Santa in his sea-bed cave. This makes me think it was the usual trauma endured by generations of pre-schoolers. After all those parental warnings to stay away from strangers, your parents suddenly deliver you into the hands, and on to the lap, of the strangest bloke you're ever likely to encounter. I mean, a red suit, seriously?
