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The Ghosts of Christmas Past by Ross Macfarlane Ross Macfarlane © Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane Christmas memories? Did I ever tell you about the time that I nearly killed my father? It was Christmas Eve, 1967. I was nine. I was walking with my mum and dad along the street. And as we neared home, my dad and I were playing a game. Side-by-side, we were playfully kicking each other’s legs from behind. A great game, and I was chortling away every time I delivered my childish blow to my dad’s legs. But then it happened. Our legs got tangled. I remember the puzzled and slightly panicked look on his face as he began to fall. Forwards. Face first. I was small then. My dad seemed enormous. And here he was now, falling forward - with both hands stuck in his pockets. I saw his elbows wriggle as he tried to get free. But too late. Like some giant tree falling in the forest, he swayed at first, and then, picking up momentum, he hurled forward towards the

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