Jackie McGregor: Gold stars, security huts and a tipsy Santa: 1970s Christmas magic

I entered full Disgusted from Belfast mode, then thought to myself, “should I get ours” out? I suddenly felt slightly panicked, but my rule of thumb is to normally start encouraging hubby to get them down from the attic about a week in advance of putting them up.

This is a delicate process - subliminal almost, the trick is making it sound like a fun idea rather than another chore to add to his list. My decorations launch date is usually 1st December. As I stood in the twilight, gazing in at a stranger’s Christmas tree, I spied a little girl playing beneath it. My mind was instantly cast back, as if looking through a window of time to the 1970s Christmases of my youth.

How different they were from the ones my son’s generation knew growing up.

I remember well the yearly trip to see Santa. I would slip into my Sunday best coat, bought from Robb’s, a scarlet affair with a fur collar and cuffs. Donning that coat made it feel like a royal event.

Mum and I would get the bus to town, sitting on hard, plastic seats, then into the security hut at the bottom of Royal Avenue. We’d be searched by police, then searched again entering every shop, living under the constant lingering threat of the Troubles. But we knew no different. Parents back then did everything in their power to create a ring of daily normality and security around their kids. We’d then head to Anderson & McAuley’s to see their famed window display, which I’d stare at in awe. Then up to the “big Co-op” for an audience with Santa, who was usually so full of the Christmas spirit, his 100% proof breath would make my eyes water.

Next, I’d be treated to an ice-cream float, and some Woolies pick and mix. We’d finish at Robinson & Cleaver’s where mum would sample the posh perfumes, and I’d get to walk down the sweeping staircase feeling like a fairytale princess. Against the background of the Troubles, inside our house was a safe haven of Christmas joy. Gold stars were hung from every ceiling, they would catch the draft, swirling gently above our heads, like a night sky indoors.

Fake snow was sprayed onto the mirrors and windows using Santa stencils, like he was watching over us. Then came the smells: the turkey roasting and homemade stuffing that tasted beyond delicious.

Chocolate Santas hung from the tree, but I wouldn’t touch them until Christmas Eve, when I’d lie beneath the branches, looking up at the twinkling fairy lights and surreptitiously feeling my gift-wrapped presents like a Christmas Columbo, trying to detect the contents.

I was lucky to receive wonderful gifts every year, but of course, the greatest gift of them all was love – an enduring love rooted in times that I still ache for, long after those golden stars have disintegrated. I used to believe that Christmas in our house was a time of fairy dust and magic.

Looking back now as a parent, I realise that it wasn’t magic… it was Mum.