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A woman approached me after my choir’s Christmas concert in Trafalgar Square … What she said gave me what I needed to move on
For me, Christmas was always complicated. As a child, it was joyful, yet tinged with something bittersweet. On the one hand, there was my Scottish mother, who went all-out for tradition. She eagerly collected festive ornaments and planned menus from her beloved Supercook magazines. She would take us to the Walrus and the Carpenter, a traditional toy store on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow, the memory of which still elicits wistful sighs from Glaswegians of a certain age.
On the other hand, there was my Bengali father. He was a reluctant participant in our Christmas extravaganza. It puzzled me that he couldn’t answer the most basic questions. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer … and then? He would smile sadly. “I’m not too sure.” How could anyone not know that? He seemed far more interested in an elephant called Ganesh who didn’t have to be put back in his box when the decorations came down. Continue reading...