The scene is set: no worrying about who’s going to turn up, or if there’ll be enough beds, or who doesn’t drink bubbly or who needs to be in bed by the stroke of midnight for work tomorrow.
As I left the main church behind me and walked slowly down the stone steps, I was bursting with anticipation. Stepping off the last step and out into the peaceful grotto, I was surprised to find myself, as a non-believer in this holy place, totally overcome with emotion. Was it excitement? Respect? Or was it that sense of staring history in the face?
If there’s one thing that reaches out to the child in us all, it’s Christmas songs. Not the Silent Night or Little Town of Bethlehem types. Rather it’s the Santa songs – whether he’s coming to town or getting stuck up the chimney, I find myself singing along and remembering long-ago Christmas mornings and all the presents that Santa brought.
I heard the news that day in Liverpool. The words were delivered in a Scouse accent in a news bulletin on a radio playing in the grocery store where I’d just popped in to buy bread that morning. John Lennon was dead.