大象传媒

I have a love / hate relationship with Christmas. I love making cards, decorations and presents for friends and family. As a wheelchair user however, I hate the crowded shops where, more than usual, people鈥檚 bags and bottoms are shoved into your face. I love the old Christmas films, the cola advert that heralds the fact that the 鈥榟olidays are coming鈥� and the fairy lights that are wrapped around practically everything at this time of year. On the other hand, I hate that the festive season begins as soon as Halloween is over, I dread Christmas parties where drunk people invariably make a beeline for the cripple and I really, really hate Santa hats.

As a small child, I loved Christmas. I wrote a letter to Santa, Rudolph ate his carrot ... and the next thing I knew, on December 25th, I鈥檇 have a pillowcase full of presents at the end of my bed.

I鈥檇 wake up in the early hours, unwrap my fuzzy felts and start munching through my chocolate selection box. We鈥檇 go to church to sing carols and then, when my cousins came to visit, I鈥檇 race around the house excitedly in my best frock and an oversized paper hat from a Christmas cracker. At 3 o鈥檆lock, all the children would sit quietly in front of the TV for the Queen鈥檚 speech, because that meant there was only 5 more minutes until the Top of the Pops Christmas Special. After that, everyone would stuff themselves with Turkey, vow not to eat as much next year and then, depending on age, would either have a nap or go and play with their presents.

Every year was the same and every Christmas was a happy one. Once I became a disabled child however, that all changed.

Unable to walk, yet without an electric wheelchair, I would spend most of my waking hours at home, sat in the living room in front of the TV. The only time I鈥檇 go to my bedroom was when I was carried upstairs each night. I lived a rather stationary life back then.

This meant that Christmas became a very different experience for me. I still woke up expectantly in the early hours and there was still that pillowcase full of presents at the end of the bed, but now I couldn鈥檛 lift my head to look at them, never mind reach them. Santa was a cruel, cruel man. Instead of the frenzied unwrapping of gifts, I lay in bed waiting for my parents to get up. Eventually they鈥檇 appear, help me get washed and dressed, carry me downstairs and then presents? No. It was time to start peeling the vegetables for Christmas dinner.

Whilst my parents were busy preparing the meal, I was subjected to what can only be described as ritual humiliation by my older brother. He thought it would be amusing to plonk a red and white Father Christmas hat on my head. He knew I couldn鈥檛 reach to take it off. He does it every year. Ho Ho Ho.

When I did finally get a chance to open my presents, my parents had been as generous as ever but the type of gifts they鈥檇 bought me were now quite different. Roller skates had been replaced by books, the space hopper had been replaced by books and even the board games that I could have played had been replaced by ... books. Essentialy, after I became disabled, I received a lot of books. Oh, and bedsocks.

Next came the visitors. First, it was the local priest, Father Frank, who turned up to give me a Christmas Blessing. Suspiciously, at the exact same time, my entire family would always disappear to deal with an alleged 鈥榗risis鈥� in the kitchen. He laid a little alter out on the coffee table, lit a couple of candles and began to sing Silent Night. It wasn鈥檛 all bad; every year he would bring me a present. It was always a book. It was always the same book.

Relatives usually began to arrive around midday and whilst the children ran upstairs to play, the adults would surround me in the living room and tell me how well I was looking. For the rest of Christmas day, I was a child forced to sit in an inner sanctum of adult hood. It was here that I was entrusted with all kinds of family secrets: Aunty Betty had a third degree prolapse, Uncle Michael had been visited by the bailiffs and goose fat is the key to the crunchiest roast potatoes.

I began to enjoy being an honorary adult for the day. Not only did it mean I was privy to classified information but I was also allowed a tipple. My uncle Bernard gave me a snowball, 鈥渢o put some colour in those cheeks鈥�, my gran poured me a glass of Stout for my blood and then dad offered me a tot of rum for my circulation. By the time The Sound of Music had started, the living room would inevitably be filled with the sound of snoring and at long long last, I would start to feel full of the Christmas spirit.