My children never had advent calendars with chocolate inside. Instead every year, out came the old wooden advent calendars I’d made them when they were little, with hinged windows opening onto an image from a Christmas story, poem or song which was read at bedtime.
When they grew up I wondered whether they’d felt deprived of the real chocolaty advent experience. I was therefore happily surprised when my eldest son asked for his old advent calendar for his own son.
So down it came from the attic and, after a new lick of paint, was shipped to my grandson in Canada, along with all the old Christmas books.