Phil Gillam: Plunging my hands in the snow of Christmases past

Well, in Dylan's childhood Christmases in Wales it was the fish-freezing waves of the two-tongued sea, and in my childhood Christmases in Shrewsbury it was the fish-freezing torrent of the River Severn as it cascaded over the weir in Sydney Avenue, a short walk from our damp, chilly, happy, enchanted home in North Street in Castlefields.

When the Welsh bard plunged his hands into the snow he brought out the story of the fire at Mrs Prothero's house on Christmas Eve as he and his mate were waiting to snowball unsuspecting cats in the garden.

And when I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find, I bring out a toy bus and coach station where some of the vehicles were made entirely of plastic, but some (oddly) were made of tin-plate, these strange specimens marking the last days of an earlier era; a toy bus station that somehow straddled the black-and-white world of Ealing comedies and the multi-coloured universe of psychedelia.

I plunge my hands into the snow again and this time bring out my Action Man with his bendy arms and legs and the uniform of a British soldier from World War II; a bright red plastic machine that would (in exchange for pennies) give you miniature bars of Cadbury's Dairy Milk chocolate; my 1967 Corgi Batmobile; a jug brimming over with custard that's just a little bit too thick (but lovely); and the promise of The Two Ronnies Christmas Special.

There was carol singing across the road at All Saints' Church, there was (for some reason I could never quite figure out) Laurel and Hardy films on the telly on Christmas morning, and there was the homely glow that only a real coal fire can provide.

Climbing underneath the dining table, you could create your own world. For instance, the year of the bus station, the coziness of this under-the-dining-table realm was perfect as the terminus for long-distance coaches arriving at their destination full of people returning home just in time for Christmas.

There was tinsel and miniature Father Christmases, chocolate and biscuits, selection boxes that seemed to last forever, Matchbox cars and toy soldiers, and wonderful books known as annuals - the Blue Peter Annual, the Whizzer & Chiips Annual, the Fantastic Annual (packed with stories of Marvel's exotic superheroes, Thor, Iron Man, the Incredible Hulk, and, er… Johnny Future (whatever happened to him?).

And there was, in the latter half of the sixties, the TV 21 Annual, highlighting the best of the superb children's comic, TV 21, and featuring Thunderbirds, Stingray and Captain Scarlet.

I cannot tell you how exciting all this was.

And there was more!

Crayons and felt-tips and colouring books.

Paper decorations that stretched across the ceiling from corner to corner, held up with drawing pins which were almost impossible to press into the hard plaster. Therefore, if you were crafty, you would use the holes already there, created by the drawing pins (or the Ghost) of Christmas Past.

There were crackers to pull and silly hats and outrageously awful jokes. A dinner more spectacular than anything we'd seen all year. And the magic of the fairy lights when you switched off the main light, and the glow of that fire in the evening, and the love of the family, and yet more chocolate, and glittering baubles, and keeping a couple of presents back for Boxing Day, and - still to come on the telly - the brilliant Morecambe and Wise.

Ah yes. Those were the days.

But, hey, every Christmas has the capacity to be special.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.