CHRISTMAS DINNER, ONE CHICKEN AND NEIL

When I was about four, Christmas felt magical and exciting. It would be our first Christmas in England. We had travelled down from Scotland in the family that April, with my pet mouse perched on the back window ledge. I had only started infant school in September, so there were Christmas carols being sung everyday, and we spent our time making homemade cards and decorations.

We bought our first big tree. The smell of pine made me think of the hills and forests we had left behind. Back then Christmas trees were real, and the whole house smelled of winter. Our Christmas tree sat in a red pot filled with soil. We decorated the base with cotton wool and glitter, with large quantities of the glitter ending up on the carpet. But hey, it was Christmas.

The tinsel we used was real metal. Thin silver strands that felt cool between your fingers. They did not taste very nice though. Decorating the tree was not a matter of throwing handfuls at the branches and hoping for the best. No. Tinsel was placed carefully. One strand at a time.

I remember standing close to the tree by the front window and watching my mother work. She would lift a single thread of silver from the Christmas box, then place it on a branch and let it fall gently. It hung there, straight and shining, and reminded me of the condensation running down the window pane.

The lights were bigger too. Warm coloured bulbs, with little pictures on them. The bulbs hummed faintly and made the silver tinsel glow in reds and golds and deep soft blues.

I used to like it when the room lights were turned off, the glow from the tree made me feel safe as though everything was right with the world.

Funny I still feel the same way now.

So, as I was saying, this particular Christmas, when I was four, my parents had invited friends for dinner. There were four adults, my two older brothers, and me. Looking back now, I have no idea how everyone even fitted around the table. Chairs were borrowed from neighbours and the table seemed to grow extra corners for the day.

What I do remember very clearly is that there was only one chicken. It sat at the top of the table ready for my father to carve. My father had been up early making chicken and vegetable soup. The smell filled the whole house and drifted out into the hallway where damp coats and scarves were piled. The kitchen windows were running with condensation and every surface seemed to have something on it. Bowls, spoons, tea towels, bits of wrapping paper.

We started with chicken and vegetable soup, steaming gently in bowls that were slightly chipped from years of use. My mother was always quick to remind us that when she and my father first married, they had one plate, one bowl, a knife, a fork, and a single spoon between them. So we were to be grateful for what we had.

The smell of the soup filled the whole house. After came the chicken itself, carefully carved by my father and stretched as far as it could go, served with potatoes and generous helpings of seasonal vegetables. For dessert there was a fruit flan that my mother had made earlier that day.

One of the guests that year was a man called Neil. He was a thick set man with dark hair. I could smell his aftershave, a popular Christmas gift in the sixties. Anyway, when he first arrived, I went up to him very seriously, as small children often do when faced with new adults. I asked politely, ''What is your name?'' He smiled kindly and said ''Neil.''

I thought perhaps I hadn't heard him properly. Christmas houses are noisy places, what with chairs scraping, brothers arguing and the coming and goings in the kitchen.

So once again I asked, ''But what is your name?''

''Neil.''

Now I was becoming confused. I wondered why he would not simply tell me. So once again I repeated the question. Once more he answered, ''Neil.''

And then in a moment that would be retold for years, I suddenly understood what I had to do if I wanted to know his name. Without a word, I dropped down onto my knees in front of him.

The room exploded with laughter. My father laughed so hard he fell back onto the sofa, struggling to catch his breath. My mother had to put down the serving dish because she was shaking with giggles. Even Neil himself was laughing, though perhaps somewhat confused.

From that day on, the story of ''Neil and the kneeling incident'' became part of our family Christmas tradition. It was told alongside memories of that one chicken that fed seven people and the fruit flan that somehow seemed to go around twice.

Looking back now, I realise that Christmas was never really about how much we had. It was about how we shared what we had, food, space, stories, and laughter. The house was crowded, money was tight. But my parents always saw that we had a present and full bellies.

I felt safe and loved.