My dad was a fireman.
Each year growing up we would attend the fire brigades annual Christmas party at the station.
All the kids would be invited, we’d have our tea, play party games and take it in turns to slide down the fireman’s pole.
At the end of each party we would get a special visit from you know who!
When Father Christmas arrived I was always amazed that he knew exactly what I had really wanted for Christmas and he would always bring the best present I’d receive all year. He would know if I had acted up, or if my sister and I had bickered, and he’d always remember mine and my sisters name out of all the hundreds of kids he used to visit each year. He’d tell us we had to be good for mummy and daddy and to brush our teeth nice and early Christmas eve night.
As happy as I was to see the man with the beard, I was always sad at this time too. I would see my mum watching me go up, sit on his knee and she’d beam with delight as I opened my present and say thank you to him. But my dad was never there to see me. When I questioned him as to why he’d missed me sitting on Father Christmas’s knee, he’d always comment that he had been busy doing important fire brigade stuff. Dad was always busy and missed out on lots of stuff.
It wasn’t until I was a grown up I had realised my dad had never missed out.
He was always there to watch his girls receive their presents. He was the one who gave them to us.
My dad really was Father Christmas!