AT some point in the run-up to Christmas, I lie down and track back through my life. Right back as far as I can manage to go.

Trying to remember people, places, faces, sounds, smells and memories.

What I’m trying to do is remember my first Christmas.

Now, on the eve of my 70th one, I have still never managed to get back further than 1964: which I remember because an aunt gave me the Beatles Christmas single I Feel Fine. I loved her, but I’ve hated them ever since.

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The other nine Christmases are gone. Locked away for some reason.

My first four must have been spent with my birth family, and then two in an orphanage.

The next three after adoption are almost entirely gone, too, although I do have a few wispy memories of elderly aunts, which I think has something to do with their fondness for overpowering perfumes and pretty strong glasses of gin.

I........

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