As a young girl growing up in South Africa, Christmas morning was torture. While most children spring out of bed before the sun has even reached the horizon with only presents on their minds, my younger sister and I had to curb our enthusiasm until at least mid-morning.

Who was the instigator of this torture? Our mother who was insistent that absolutely no present opening would happen before we’d been to our Church’s Christmas service. Thankfully Father Christmas was always generous with the stockings, which we could open upon waking. This did help ease the torture somewhat but as we trooped out the house in our Sunday best the presents in all their sparkly finery were taunting us from under the Christmas tree.

To add to the unjustness, when we arrived at church we had to endure all the other gleeful children brandishing their new toys under our noses as they were obviously allowed to open their presents at whatever ungodly hour they woke up.

If that wasn’t enough, during the service the minister would invite these children up to the front encouraging them to excitedly reveal what they were clutching. My sister and I just scowled at them practically bursting with envy.

Yes, of course, Christmas is not all about the gifts but try reasonably telling that to a five-year-old. I do, however, remember feeling somewhat cheered by the many Christmas hymns the choir led us through during the service. Even today hearing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing fills me with nostalgia.

Back home and with both sets of grandparents assembled in our living room we could FINALLY get our hot little hands on those presents. Then out of a whirlwind of wrapping paper, ribbon and packaging we emerged beaming with all that we received. The year we got matching swimsuits we insisted on putting them on immediately and so wore them for the entire Christmas lunch before jumping into the pool.

Lunch was a fusion of British and Afrikaans culture and despite the scorching summer heat more akin to a barbecue, we would tuck into dishes like clove studded ham, Yorkshire puddings and a huge stuffed pumpkin. We then finished it off with Christmas Cake, custard and my grandmother’s signature trifle.

I have very fond memories of childhood Christmases and all these years later I do understand my mother’s conviction on present opening, but it was still torture.