What sticks with you when you're all grown up? Nik Bruce-Smith recalls a sneaky festive plan, tampon shenanigans, and the man he'll treasure forever.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler or read on.
It was the week before Christmas, when all through the house a creature was stirring, and it was most certainly not a mouse.
Back before the turn of the millennia, the week before the Christmas 1998, I decided I could not wait any longer to know what my presents under the tree were.
The problem I faced was that there was no way in hell that my mum would let me open my presents early. So at the age of nine, I knew that I had to devise a plan that was so cunning, so sneaky, so ingenious, that I could find out what my presents were and yet appear to open them on Christmas day with blissful ignorance as to what lay below the paper.
So it came to pass on the night of December 20 1998, that this child was not nestled all snug in his bed, as he had visions of grandeur dancing in his head.
Although it may seem obvious as to why a nine-year-old boy would want to pre-empt Christmas festivities, I should probably begin by providing some context for my decision to take matters into my own hands.
From an early age, I realised my mum was someone who had Santa’s ear and was my direct line of communication to the obese and sweaty white man that I encountered once a year at Johnsonville mall. Sadly, despite making it clear to my mother what I wanted for Christmas, it appeared that I was stuck in a game of Chinese whispers, whereby my requests were not making it through to Mr Claus.
When I was two-years-old, I requested a balloon for Christmas. Not 10 balloons, not 100 balloons, just one single balloon (inflated). A humble request by any measure, yet come December 25 1991, there I sat beneath the Christmas tree, balloon-less, my spirit deflated.
A humble request by any measure, yet come December 25 1991, there I sat beneath the Christmas tree, balloon-less, my spirit deflated.
By the age of four, and following two years of Christmas disappointments, I came to the conclusion that either (a) my mother was an incompetent servant of Santa, or (b) my mother was incompetent and Santa didn’t exist. I decided to believe in option (a). So, come Christmas 1993, when my mum asked me what I wanted I was unequivocally clear – a tiger and some water buffalo to feed it.
Needless to say, that Christmas did not live up to my expectations.
The same year, in an act of brotherly love, I also took it upon myself to tell my sister what her Christmas present was before Christmas day. Much like Nelson Mandala in his early years, my actions were misunderstood as being combative rather than recognised as a step towards the empowerment of others. It probably didn’t help that also around that time I had taken to blowing out my sister's birthday candles (largely because I didn’t believe she had the lung capacity to do it herself and didn’t want her to be embarrassed in front of her friends).
Fast forward to the morning of December 21, 1998. I awoke with a sense of determination to put my plan into action at the first available opportunity.
Overnight I had formulated what I thought was a simple, yet effective, plan. All I needed to do was rip off the tiniest bit of wrapping paper on the present, in a strategic location, and in doing so I would find out what the present was, with my mother none the wiser to my cunning ploy.
I had weighed up my options in terms of whether I took a non-discriminate approach to my presents or whether I targeted the most prized gifts. In the end I realised that if my plan was going to be successful, I needed to temper my desire and focus on the only gift that really mattered – the one from my mum.
This was in part due to the fact that I had come to learn that my relatives had zero imagination when it came to presents for me, and following my request back in 1993 for a tiger, they had formed a clear view that the only thing that I liked in the world was tigers and therefore all presents (birthday, Christmas or otherwise) needed to be tiger related.
I say with some distain that this is a trend that has continued to this very day. Each year, without fail, some aunt or uncle still believes that the one thing missing in my life is some tiger-related paraphernalia (although their creativity for tiger-themed goods has narrowed since 2006 to that of an annual tiger calendar). Don’t get me wrong, I do love tigers. I think it’s more that I haven’t had a use for a calendar, let alone a tiger calendar, since the invention of the smartphone.
Each year, without fail, some aunt or uncle still believes that the one thing missing in my life is some tiger-related paraphernalia.
Consequently, I have a stash of tiger calendars hidden under my bed that, if discovered by a stranger, would have them question whether my love for tigers was something more than platonic.
I didn’t take me long to find my mum’s present for me under the tree. It was of medium size, rectangular and firm. I didn’t know how long I would have alone under the tree. I tore off the bottom corner of the parcel, adrenaline rushing through my body. But I was immediately disappointed as my small tear in the wrapping had not provided me with the information I so desired. I retreated. I would need to regroup and attack again at a later time.
That night in bed I was restless. I was certain my plan was the right one but I had thought that I would be able to tell straight away what my present was.
Unfortunately, this hadn’t been the first time that a plan of mine had gone awry.
Earlier that year I had found a small box of what appeared to be large, elongated cotton buds attached to a piece of string, each individually wrapped in plastic. They had caught my eye while in the bathroom one day and I took the opportunity to grab them and try and figure out what they were. Naturally, I took them to school to show my friends and we spent a memorable lunch time running around swinging them on their strings pretending we were helicopters and hitting each other with them.
Our lunchtime was cut short as one of our teachers abruptly stopped us playing, confiscated these curious items and proceeded to question us with vigour about why we had them and what we were doing with them. At the time I had no idea why she had an issue with what appeared to me to be something completely harmless. I in fact distinctly remember saying to her “have you tried using one before” – I can still see the look of pure anger and embarrassment that consumed her face as I made the comment.
Needless to say I never brought any more of these curious items to school. It was not until Form 1 in a health education class that I would learn that I had in fact brought a box of tampons to my primary school and dished them out like candy to my mates. Oddly, during the part of that health class where they drop the tampon in a glass of water, a part of me was disappointed I hadn’t known to try that back when I had brought them to primary school. My friends would have been loads impressed.
As the week leading to the December 25 1998 wore on, I took every opportunity to tear off another small part of wrapping paper in the hope that I would finally know what lay inside. Yet I was still none the wiser as to what the present actually was. I found myself, due to the amount I had actually unwrapped, needing to hide the present underneath other presents so my mum and sister were not aware of my efforts. At this point it started to dawn on me that I might have gone too far and that at any moment I could be exposed and Christmas could be cancelled.
Around this time, I was also a massive fan of The Beatles, and as my anxiety built I found myself roaming the house humming the song ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles – “Yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though there here to stay. Oh I believe in yesterday”.
It was as if Paul McCartney saw into my soul. The words he sung resonated with the inner torment I was going through. “Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be, there’s a shadow hanging over me.” In the coming months, I would be shocked to learn that The Beatles were no longer a band, and in fact one of the Beatles was dead (when I learnt this startling truth, deep down I had hoped it was Ringo).
As Christmas Eve drew near, I knew that I was too far committed to pull out now, and in a feverous last ditch effort I found myself tearing more and more of the wrapping away until I realised I had unwrapped the entire present. And what a glorious present it was.
After years of disappointment, my mum had finally delivered. However I had gone too far, there was no way I could disguise what I had done. And so I found myself on Christmas Eve re-wrapping my own gift.
Christmas Day itself has always been a big deal for me. My parents divorced when I was really young, which meant that I became accustomed to having two Christmases on Christmas day – Christmas with my Dad’s side of the family in the morning and Christmas with my Mum’s side of the family in the afternoon. The consequence of this was that during my adolescent years I became a bit of a propaganda machine for divorce as I would regularly advocate to my classmates the benefits of encouraging their parents to get divorced, and no argument was more compelling than the concept of having two Christmases where your separated parents compete for your love and affection through the provision of gifts.
No argument was more compelling than the concept of having two Christmases where your separated parents compete for your love and affection through the provision of gifts.
And so I woke on Christmas day 1998 with a sense of adrenalin fuelled nervous excitement. This was going to be my Christmas, and it was. My fears of being caught out were never realised, as the day sailed through without any comment from my mother as to the change in wrapping paper on her gift to me. I had pulled it off and for that entire Christmas Day I was untouchable.
To be honest, most of that Christmas Day is a blur peppered with moments of vividly clear memories.
What I remember most from that day is my Granddad – or Papa as I called him.
I remember wanting to tell him so much about how I had pulled off my elaborate plan with the present but I never did. Not because I was afraid he might not approve, but because when I had unwrapped it in the morning he had given me this knowing look and wink, as if he knew and it was to be our little secret.
I think every child has a hero growing up who they idolise beyond words, and for me that was my Granddad. He always had the funniest stories, the wittiest sayings and the most sage of advice. He was the kindest and most caring human being I have ever met. Principled but pragmatic.
On July 7 2001, my granddad passed away after a long battle with lung cancer.
But on the 25th of December 1998, I lived in blissful ignorance of that sad fact.
He was there, and in that moment, he always would be. I remember, his eyes - how they twinkled! His dimples - how merry! His cheeks like roses from drinking the sherry.
And within the blink of an eye the day came and went. The most perfect Christmas ever, a child could have spent.
But I heard my grandpa exclaim, as his Toyota Corolla drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night”.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Tessa Stubbing
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