“Church is the worst bit of Christmas.”

As an adult, I realise the irony of that statement, given the whole Jesus’ birthday aspect of Christmas.

But as a child, stuffed into an itchy woolly jumper and and dragged away from my shiny new toys into a drab, draughty church on Christmas morning, I thought the whole sombre ritual a cruel punishment after being a good wee girl all year round.

But we had to go, because my gran said so.

Rarely listening to the low drone of the call-and-response Catholic mass, all to do with lambs and sins, I’d amuse myself instead by eyeing the Stations of the Cross which were carved into the walls, just below the ceiling.

I could never remember the ‘real’ story, so I’d make different ones up each week, based on the faceless figures and the positions of their eerily long limbs.

Or I’d fixate in wonder on the pristine, white French roll of the old lady who usually sat in front of us, held in place by a mesmerising crystal pin. Her hair was so reliable – always right........

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