When Paul Viggers woke up and caught his father sneaking in with their presents on Christmas Eve 1965 “with no bearded old man in a red suit anywhere to be seen”, his main feeling was embarrassment for his brother. “After all, I was only eight and was already a bit suspicious … but he was 13, and really ought to have known better,” the 66-year-old retired teacher remembers.
Growing up in Gloucestershire, Christmas meant a familiar routine for the brothers. “One of us would notice a pillowcase was full and we’d be unable to hold back the excitement , shouting ‘He’s been! He’s been!’, before banging on the lights and diving to the end of the bed to see what we’d got,” says Viggers, who now lives in Spain.
