How a childhood Christmas turned from frenzied excitement to utter despair When I was a kid, between the ages of about four and 12, I was often taken to the local hockey club on a Saturday. The clubhouse looked like an oversized wooden shoebox and served orange squash when the bar at the back of the main room was open. The entranceway smelled of muddy boots and there was a river at the end of the pitches that we kids could run to when we got bored. It was great. Every December, the hockey club put on a Christmas party – the clubroom was filled with plastic pop-up tables coated in patterned Christmas covers, bowls of crisps and ham and jam sandwiches and see-through plastic jugs of the strongest, most delicious orange and blackcurrant squash. At about 6pm, once we’d all downed at least 20 cups of squash, popped and sniffed the party poppers, and stuffed our faces with as much sliced battenburg as we could manage, a tinkling of tiny bells would begin outside. One kid would notice first, then a whisper to other little ears and the news would spread quick as chickenpox, until we’d hurl ourselves in a group frenzy towards the slightly opened back doors. from http://allofbeer.com/hollie-mcnish-i-couldnt-believe-that-santa-knew-my-name-then-he-pulled-out-the-presents/
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