Something Sad This Way Comes

The first week in January of any year in childhood has only one really bright ray of hope.

The build up to Christmas Day begins way back as soon as fireworks leave the shelves of Woolworths in early November. It becomes a bit more real and infinitely more exciting when the first Advent calendar chocolate shape is squeezed out of its foil backing and into hot little hands to be eagerly digested whilst trying to decipher what is the significance of the accompanying picture of a hedgehog in a scarf on a skateboard.

There is a true magic in the eyes of children at the Carol Services as school term finishes.

I remember the in-school parties and the giving by staff of toothbrushes, disclosing tablets and a tube of Colgate to me and my classmates as though these things had to be used up to clear the budget for the forthcoming new year.

Purchase of the TV Times and, to balance things up, Radio Times gave a chance for each member of the family to highlight what they wanted to see. I always chose Ice Station Zebra, The Great Escape and the re-screening of Laurel and Hardy classics although on our black and white television these could have been produced just a few weeks before. There was an implicit understanding of course to reserve without preference after lunch on Christmas Day a quiet few minutes for the Queens Speech, just before everyone dozes off on the settee in their own royal, but tissue paper, crowns.

 The day flies by, even with a very early start and getting earlier with every year. There is some solace of much of the same again on Boxing Day but in someone elses house. That day can be a bit more perambulatory if conducted at Grandparents pace and expectations.

Next day, a chance to actually play with the presents and that is where a period of limbo starts until another big shop at Liptons in readiness for New Years Eve. That can be either a riotous all ages party or a clock watching exercise so that two minutes after midnight you can thankfully go to bed thinking the whole thing is a bit of a damp squib.

Next looming deadline is the return to dismal school.

However, that bright ray of hope I mentioned comes into play. A frantic search is made on the mantelpiece, in the toy sacks and discarded crumpled Christmas stockings , amongst part opened or completely decimated packaging, in the bulging bin bags stockpiled in the verandah or in complete desparation inside each and every displayed Christmas card for the gift tokens from Uncle David, Auntie Brenda and our only cousins Andrew and Carolyn.

These usually arrived in early to mid December whilst we were at school and would be squiralled away by Mother. As we were thoroughly spoilt with presents the compact envelopes, all personally addressed, would then be placed amongst the boughs on the Christmas Tree only to be opened as a finale to the gift fest. Book Tokens were highly treasured because it meant that in the dismal days of early January when all excitement was depleted, flat or non-existent we could go into the nearest large town to WH Smiths or an independant bookstore and buy something.

It was on one such expedition with my much appreciated book token that I stumbled across the purchase of a lifetime. I had wandered out of my age grouped shelved area and into the realms of larger, cooler kids in the sci-fi, fantasy and horror section. The fantastical book covers were of scantily clad, large bosomed female warrior types usually with a pet snake and a sharp weapon and amazingly astride a mythical creature as well. Talk about multi-tasking skills of modern and futuristic women. On a shelf just on tip toe reach, amongst the alphabetical arranged authors of the letter 'B' were two thick paperback volumes of the short stories of Ray Bradbury.

I had not heard of him before so my decision to browse with a view to purchasing was not on literary grounds but because of the price. On special offer my book token would stretch to both weighty books. The Red spined volume had a large emblazoned 1 and logically but in yellow was 2.

Value for token money was amazing. Fifty stories in each and all within a few pages so my lack of concentration at the best of times would not be too impeding on enjoyment. I skipped through a few of the magical titles and was instantly engrossed and captivated by the wonderfully descriptive writing, the full on characters, a deep emotion one moment and sheer screaming terror the next.

That single moment of relinquishing a paper slip of token monetary value has provided many, many hours of enjoyment of fantastical story telling and a lifetime of thrilling literature that still accompanies me today, at the age of nearly 49 in my mind, imagination and soul.

I did not get an opportunity to ever express my gratitude to Ray Bradbury in my own words and with the announcement of his death just today at the age of 91 I am sad. I read the stories to my own children, now themselves young adults, and it was my eldest daughter who texted me with the news. We were collectively sad and quite apprehensive about telling the other members of our own small fan club.

I have another major regret and not a little embarassment as I think that, all those years ago, I never even sent a thank you letter to my Uncle, Aunt and only cousins.