'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung, by the

chimney with care,

In the hopes that Nicholas soon would be there.

Clement C. Moore (1779-1863)

- American writer

Filled with eager anticipation, I could never wait until morning, however early it came, to see what Santa had left me. I knew that in my well-darned, but freshly laundered, home-knitted school sock, there would be a rosy apple, an orange or tangerine, a few mixed nuts, a comic, a pair of liquorice bootlaces, a sugar mouse, a humbug, a spinning top, or a yo-yo, and, perhaps, six new pennies wrapped in silver paper.

But the pillowcase contained the larger, unknown treasures. My mother would put it on the top shelf of the landing cupboard - a place she thought I couldn't reach - some time on Christmas Eve, and just before she went to bed, and I was fast asleep, she would place it with the stocking at the foot of my bed.

I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, not even reading Gulliver's Travels, by torchlight under the bedclothes; waiting for her to turn on the wireless, the sound of which would cover the noise of my exit from the bedroom. I quietly placed my bedroom chair against the landing cupboard, climbed on it, opened the top doors and reached inside. As I had hoped, the pillowcase was there. I gently eased it forward. It wasn't heavy, so I lifted it from the shelf and silently lowered it to the floor.

My heart pounding, I hurriedly opened the pillowcase and placed its contents on the floor. I switched on my torch, shading its beam with my hand. Now I could see all the presents strewn before me: a box of 12 lead soldiers - Guards-men, wearing ceremonial uniforms; a Dandy annual; a game of Ludo; a pencil case, and a hard rubber ball.

But the most surprising present was a cardboard theatre, made-up from cut-out parts printed on the backs of cereal boxes. The theatre had curtains, a stage, and there were several sets of characters from fairy stories such as Cinderella, Jack And The Beanstalk and Babes In The Wood, to be cut out and pasted on to stands.

How could she have known what I wanted? Then I remembered - I had once told her that I would like to write plays and show them in a theatre. She hadn't forgotten.

I couldn't wait to play with the theatre, and in my excitement mimicked out loud the imagined voices of the various characters. Then, from the foot of the stairs, my mother's said: "You've got just one minute to put those things back where you found them and get into bed and go to sleep, or there'll be no presents for you tomorrow."

Quickly replacing the precious bundle in the cupboard, I jumped into bed; there to dream of the fun that Christmas Day would bring.

Such joyous times, those Christmases, when you never had to dream of them being white - they nearly always were.

Leylandii trees, those avaricious and monstrous evergreens, have grown another yard, since I last wrote about them, and controlling legislation is still awaited. I now learn, from a tabloid columnist that Tory peer Earl Ferrers has spoken against the Government's plan to ban high hedges, saying: " I believe that is going too far."

Thirty foot high hedges might be all right for the nobility, entertainers and footballers, some of whom have gardens almost as big as Hyde Park, but the common people, with plots not much bigger than double bed sheets, need all the light, air and moisture they can get to nurture their few plants.

For those who garden in gloom and hope - be patient, enlightenment is on the way.