Irish Granny had the best Christmas tree. Despite being small and artificial, it had two things that ours did not: lights and chocolates. These adornments were hypnotic to an excitable child. I was captivated by the twinkling reds, yellows and greens that illuminated and enhanced that most delicious of enticements: the foiled wrapped chocolate.

These prohibited objects of desire hung in reflected light, flashing temptation at my seven-year-old self. As we had already been warned they were not for eating now, my cousin Paul and I hatched a plan to sneak one from the back where its absence would go unnoticed. He was a whole year older than me and therefore suitably qualified to carry out the actual theft.

We waited until the adults were distracted by the Christmas Advocaat, to carry out our fiendish deed. Then, with intrigue worthy of a Shakespearian plot, we snuck off to the stairs with our treasure.

Yes! It was one of my favourites; the one curiously shaped like a traffic light. Slowly, we peeled its shiny covering. How grave and mature we believed ourselves to be, in delaying the pleasure. I broke the uncovered rectangle as evenly as possible and we sat back to enjoy our stolen delights.

In common with most petty criminals, we got greedy. Surely, we could risk removing just one more?

But this time Granny spotted us.

‘Don’t be eating them. They’re years old. You’ll be poisonin’ yerselves before Christmas.’

Poison!

Shock hurled both of us back to the staircase to contemplate our imminent demise. White with fear – or oncoming death – we sat in silence.

We were Catholic schoolchildren. Shouldn’t we have known that we’d pay the price for sin? And this was stealing – and possibly gluttony. I thought of the shiny red tape recorder waiting for me in Santa’s sack. Probably the least I could hope for was that I didn’t die until boxing day.

Miserably, we considered our options. Should we make ourselves sick? No, much too coincidental. Should we tell our mums? No, too much shouting.

Then an idea! There was only one possible solution; we must go to Lourdes for a miracle. This was fool proof, but the logistics were clearly outside our control. Maybe though, if we promised to go in the future, Mary would kindly let us owe her one.

Christmas was happy and healthy and, as months passed, we assumed that our bargain had been accepted. It was only when the tree came out the following year that I noticed the chocolates were entirely different. So, either Our Lady was benevolent – or Granny had lied!