The Ghost of Presents Past

Seeing desperate parents scouring the shops and carting packages of electronics home, I can only shake the doddering old head and wonder – given the range of products available to be doled out at every gift-giving occasion – will today's children remember anything special when they, too, become, if not wiser, almost certainly sadder, oldies?

Will all childhood not be merely a blur of short-term delights instead of separate oases of precious memories? Or are we not just jealous that the world, for all its horrors, is actually a lot better than post-war Britain ever was? Would our childish selves not have done everything (including actually washing our knees and behind our ears instead of a quick swipe with the towel and a leap into bed before Mum could carry out an inspection) to receive such treasure trove twice yearly? Of course we would – we may even have gone to Sunday School more often, as well.

Ask me if I can remember any gift received in my austere 1940s childhood, and two will spring immediately to mind. The first was a small wooden railway station, made by my father, who was also a carpenter. At 6.30 on Christmas morning it was the Koh-i-noor Diamond of railway stations, shining brilliantly in fresh lead paint. The fact that it actually consisted of two blocks of wood stuck together mattered not a jot. The station had no name, but the platform sloped at either end, forming a perfect stunt track along which to shoot old Dinky toy cars crashing into each other. It didn't matter that there was no railway track to put it by – in turn, that solid block of wood was Brands Hatch, the fort at the Alamo, Buckingham Palace, an aircraft carrier and the main stand at White Hart Lane, the home of Spurs. It saw so much service that it was practically unusable for its proper function when the clockwork railway set appeared a year later. Such a lavish gift was, of course, the one 'joint present' to be shared with an older brother. Inevitably, and quite rightly, this cream on the Christmas cake was more suited to the older of the pair, as it wouldn't have worked too well giving a pop-up book of the alphabet in pictures to a six-year-old. And, in any case, the minor partner would grow into it – as he did his brother's clothes – if it lasted long enough.

The other gift was memorable but need not be summoned up from the distant past, as I still have it – a tin that once contained Sharp's toffees. Its lid celebrated the famous show-jumping pair of Harry Llewellyn and Foxhunter. Each flavour of toffee was identified by its distinctive coloured wrapper and the sweets were lined up in ranks with military precision, and indeed did soldierly duty on the draughts board, before being eaten, in religiously strict order of least to most tasty, at the rate of one per day. Appropriately, the box now contains another family memento – Dad's chess set, a treasure now worth far more than any amount of gold, frankincense and myrrh – or Wii Game for that matter.

In 50 years' time, will some thoughtful soul recall receiving a pink iPod with 20 Gigabytes? Quite probably; for it is ever the human lot to look askance at the world of today and nostalgically back at yesterday.

Ah, there's a tiny sliver of toffee in the rusted corner of the box. Wonder what flavour it is…