mind?
Rev. Hope: I’m sure he looks away when necessary.
5
Xmas was a busy time in Flatstone and entailed much more than the advent candle and clove-studded oranges of previous years. Our school became a hive of Xmas industry. There was the constant rehearsing of the school nativity play (
Mary Had a Baby
). And Xmas decorations to be designed, created and displayed around school. Xmas presents to be made for much-loved mothers and hard-working fathers. Turkey and pudding to be eaten at the Xmas lunch, letters to be written to Father Xmas – who apparently had an elf waiting to take them to the village hall ready for him to read at the Xmas Fayre. And then the special Xmas assembly where the headmistress would remind us that Xmas was
not
about presents, turkey or Father Xmas, but about Jesus.
The headmistress was neurotic when it came to Jesus, especially at Xmas when she worried that he might be ignored or eclipsed by other nicer features of Xmas. So much so that she got the vicar in. Reverend Derek appeared one morning at school assembly and spoke to us on the subject. We sang ‘Away in a Manger’ quite vigorously and then the vicar produced a sign with the word ‘Xmas’ written across it in huge capital letters.
‘X,’ he said, ‘X-mas. How many of you write
Christ
-mas like this?’ he asked, smiling, tapping the word.
A good few children put their hand up. I didn’t put mine up, sensing a trick.
The vicar scanned the hall. His smile fell and his face turned stony. ‘More than half of you,’ he said.
He told us it was lazy and insulting. ‘Do you not see how lazy and insulting it is, just to avoid writing four letters?’
He didn’t know when it had started, but guessed it had come over from America, probably with rock ’n’ roll. Whatever, Xmas was creeping in more and more and becoming almost normal. He himself had received two or three Xmas cards with ‘Happy Xmas’ scrawled inside and it saddened him to think that people
he knew
would insult Christ like that.
‘Because, let’s think about this, children, when you write X-mas, what’s the word you’re not writing … hmm?’
He gazed around the hall. Only about two children had their hands up this time and the vicar pointed to a boy called Daniel.
‘You, what is it we’re not writing when we write X-mas?’
‘Christmas?’ said the boy. And everyone giggled.
‘Christ,’ said the vicar, ‘we’re not writing
Christ
.’
There was something quite infuriating about that vicar standing up on stage tricking us into admitting we wrote Xmas and then saying what a lazy and insulting thing it was, when, for some of us, it was simply a way of not having to worry about how to spell it – my friend Melody, for instance, was usually a good speller but she often forgot the h, and even Little Jack, who was ‘a precocious speller’ according to his teacher, often missed out the t. The problem was, it was a seasonal word and therefore we hadn’t had the all-year-round practice that you have with non-seasonal words such as Accommodation or Squirrel.
And there was that idiotic little vicar saying it was an insult to Jesus to write Xmas. I didn’t think it an insult, I thought it common sense and wondered why the vicar didn’t just talk about something ordinary like the miracle of his birth, instead of moaning about him being insulted in an abbreviation.
I have written Xmas ever since. And I try to never write theword fully out. I even say Exmas. Not to insult Jesus, but in memory of that idiotic little vicar.
Xmas Xmas Xmas.
And if I’m honest, Father Xmas had become more important to me than Jesus by then. It had nothing to do with the writing of Xmas and even if I’d written it as
Christ
mas I’d still have been more interested in Father Xmas. The thing was, on Xmas Eve in 1968, when our parents were still married to each other and we lived in town, I’d heard him arrive in his sleigh on our rooftop.
A loud thump woke me as
Rev. Hope: I’m sure he looks away when necessary.
5
Xmas was a busy time in Flatstone and entailed much more than the advent candle and clove-studded oranges of previous years. Our school became a hive of Xmas industry. There was the constant rehearsing of the school nativity play (
Mary Had a Baby
). And Xmas decorations to be designed, created and displayed around school. Xmas presents to be made for much-loved mothers and hard-working fathers. Turkey and pudding to be eaten at the Xmas lunch, letters to be written to Father Xmas – who apparently had an elf waiting to take them to the village hall ready for him to read at the Xmas Fayre. And then the special Xmas assembly where the headmistress would remind us that Xmas was
not
about presents, turkey or Father Xmas, but about Jesus.
The headmistress was neurotic when it came to Jesus, especially at Xmas when she worried that he might be ignored or eclipsed by other nicer features of Xmas. So much so that she got the vicar in. Reverend Derek appeared one morning at school assembly and spoke to us on the subject. We sang ‘Away in a Manger’ quite vigorously and then the vicar produced a sign with the word ‘Xmas’ written across it in huge capital letters.
‘X,’ he said, ‘X-mas. How many of you write
Christ
-mas like this?’ he asked, smiling, tapping the word.
A good few children put their hand up. I didn’t put mine up, sensing a trick.
The vicar scanned the hall. His smile fell and his face turned stony. ‘More than half of you,’ he said.
He told us it was lazy and insulting. ‘Do you not see how lazy and insulting it is, just to avoid writing four letters?’
He didn’t know when it had started, but guessed it had come over from America, probably with rock ’n’ roll. Whatever, Xmas was creeping in more and more and becoming almost normal. He himself had received two or three Xmas cards with ‘Happy Xmas’ scrawled inside and it saddened him to think that people
he knew
would insult Christ like that.
‘Because, let’s think about this, children, when you write X-mas, what’s the word you’re not writing … hmm?’
He gazed around the hall. Only about two children had their hands up this time and the vicar pointed to a boy called Daniel.
‘You, what is it we’re not writing when we write X-mas?’
‘Christmas?’ said the boy. And everyone giggled.
‘Christ,’ said the vicar, ‘we’re not writing
Christ
.’
There was something quite infuriating about that vicar standing up on stage tricking us into admitting we wrote Xmas and then saying what a lazy and insulting thing it was, when, for some of us, it was simply a way of not having to worry about how to spell it – my friend Melody, for instance, was usually a good speller but she often forgot the h, and even Little Jack, who was ‘a precocious speller’ according to his teacher, often missed out the t. The problem was, it was a seasonal word and therefore we hadn’t had the all-year-round practice that you have with non-seasonal words such as Accommodation or Squirrel.
And there was that idiotic little vicar saying it was an insult to Jesus to write Xmas. I didn’t think it an insult, I thought it common sense and wondered why the vicar didn’t just talk about something ordinary like the miracle of his birth, instead of moaning about him being insulted in an abbreviation.
I have written Xmas ever since. And I try to never write theword fully out. I even say Exmas. Not to insult Jesus, but in memory of that idiotic little vicar.
Xmas Xmas Xmas.
And if I’m honest, Father Xmas had become more important to me than Jesus by then. It had nothing to do with the writing of Xmas and even if I’d written it as
Christ
mas I’d still have been more interested in Father Xmas. The thing was, on Xmas Eve in 1968, when our parents were still married to each other and we lived in town, I’d heard him arrive in his sleigh on our rooftop.
A loud thump woke me as
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