The best pigs-in-blankets are the frozen ones

by Martha Williams

Too early one Christmas morning my toes weighed a bundle that was lighter than I would have liked and I was disappointed.

I went to tell Mum and I think she must have known because she pointed to where my feet stood; there was a doll’s cradle waiting for me. It was mine.

Later I found out that she had picked it out of a skip and repainted it in secret. I thought that was really nice. And I got the koala bear Sylvanian Families that year.

Mum did a lot in secret for our Christmas; either that or I just didn’t notice,like the big lunch.

Pigs-in-blankets

The best pigs-in-blankets are the frozen ones from Iceland, but when I found out everything we ate that day had been frozen from Iceland, in my capacity as teenage food critic and connoisseur, was horrified and benevolently promised my mother I would do a better job for us all next year.

This year my family has dispersed – my sister to Bangladesh and my brother with his brand new baby – and although some traditions now lay dormant,I still go home to my gingham duvet, and, still feel the weight of a pillowcase-come-stocking lurking like a welcome stranger at the bottom of my bed.

When I padfoot through to Mum’s room to show her the wares I won from Father Christmas for being a darling, the same cold seeps into the soles of my feet and I know one day I’ll conjure the same deep magic for my little ones.