The Smell of Pine and Tangerine Peelings

    2005 in its entirety, was a year of amazing highs and deeply painful lows for me, not unlike 2011. It was year I came home from secondary school in Cyprus and my first full-on Christmas season in the UK for six long years. I had forgotten just what a special time it could be.

On the 5^th December 2005 at approximately 10am I stumbled out of my childhood bedroom and onto the landing. There, in the freezing cold, was the most overwhelming smell. So overwhelming that I forgot I could see my own breath, that I was bare foot and that I really needed to go to the bathroom. Heavy in the air was the smell of pine trees on a cold and clear winters day. I took and deep breath and thought to myself, “I really am home.”

I walked down the stairs and into our shop's store room to find a forest of 7ft tall pine trees taking up all the available space bar a small path that lead to the front door. I felt like Gretel following little breadcrumbs of Chrismassiness all the way into the green grocers. If you're ever going to be a green grocers daughter, Christmas is the time to be one. The shop itself was full of every kind of seasonal loveliness you could possibly want. Fresh tangerines, lychees, chestnuts... and Brussels sprouts, if you're into that kinda thing. But it wasn't just what we sold, it was the presents that people brought. Some brought store bought chocolates, biscuits and cakes. And the sheer delight when people would bring in things they'd made with our produce. Everything from home-made mince pies and shortbread, to ginger beer, hot sauce and home-made preserves, jams and chutneys. One chutney in particular made headlines in our household – beetroot and apple – that went so well with my mother's left over turkey we didn't want it to run out.

And the atmosphere. People had a different air about them at Christmas. They carried themselves a little differently. Many people were looking forward to seeing their families, lots of the students were happy to be going home and most people were just happy to know they were in for a few days off. They would gleefully come in, huge smiles on their faces, sweeping up as much as they could to take with them when they went off to see their mum in Italy, or their grandparents up North, or their mates in Cardiff or where ever they were off to.

Old friends would appear, back in London to visit the urban souls they'd left behind, with a story to tell, and probably some other delicious treats! And the Christmas cards would flock in like homing pigeons perching themselves on every available surface until my mother would proudly get out the string and hang them along the ceiling.

But the best part about Christmas at the Olive Shop was delivering the Christmas trees with my father. Kitted out in my winter cardigan, scarf, hat and finger-less gloves to protect us not only from the cold but the vicious pine needles, we would pack up the old Volvo and head out with an address in our pockets and 10ft fir hanging out the back, or poking through the front. You learn two things while delivering Christmas trees in London. The first is that, where ever there is space to put a front door around here you can bet they'll be one. It won't be obvious at first, the address you've been given will be of no use and you'll make the neighbours dead nervous faffing about outside their windows, especially in your vagrants get up. But eventually you will find it... Or as on several occasions, not. Thank the dear sweet genius that invented the mobile phone! In fact, this trouble with road numbers and hidden front doors is the reason I first started helping my dad with the trees way back when mobile phones were for bankers and the cast of Ab Fab. The second thing you learn, you learn the first time you ever deliver a tree to a family home. There is nothing quite as special as seeing a little kids face light up when you walk into their living room with their Christmas tree. And nothing warms your Humbug heart quite as much as when they shyly muster a thank you and as soon as your back is turned start screaming, “Father Christmas is COMING and he's getting me a BIKE!!!” It made going out into that bitter cold worth it I can tell you.

Alas, this year there's no pine smell, no tangerines, no smiling customers or zealous little kids. But this article is not about despair but rather a tribute to all the people who made those Christmases worth having. Although this year will be a tough one, I don't doubt they'll be many more wonderful Christmases to come, but those while the shop was open were something extraordinary and they will be missed and oh so fondly remembered, just as the smell of pine and tangerine peelings will. And, of course, my dear old dad who always loved to play Father Christmas in plain clothes. 

Merry Christmas Dad, I'm sorry I was such a pain in the arse sometimes.