Shedding tears for Christmas and yet I am loving every moment - Christa Ackroyd

But when it comes to public performances she is a stickler for getting things right. The perfectionist comes out in her and the look of concentration on her little face as she walked towards Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus melted my heart and brought tears to my eyes. Tears of nostalgia for all the Christmases past and tears of joy at remembering how lucky we are to have family, when some have none.

Those tears were quickly replaced with stifled tears of laughter when the little one, Margot, made her appearance.

A perfectionist she is not. And like me she has the boredom threshold of a knat. So when she decided it would be fun to pull her golden crown over her eyes instead of firmly on her head her teacher was forced to intervene. Was she bothered? Not at all. Instead she looked directly at me as if to say I don’t care but did I make you laugh ? You did Margot as you do all the time. You bring tears of laughter with your sense of the ridiculous. And you know it. She’ll go far that one.

Within three days I was crying again, when my eldest niece Holly married the love of her life, Xavier and had travelled home from the South to be among childhood friends and family for her big day.

The day before had been a happy one too with all her aunties decorating the wonderful splendour that is Victoria Hall in Saltaire.

Huge garlands of flowers and trailing ivy adorned the stone staircase leading to the ceremony room. Winter foliage, with holly for Holly or course and white Yorkshire roses were placed in every spare corner, on every window cill and on every table. Beautiful.There is something about winter weddings that are magical. And something about Saltaire, a world Unesco Heritage site that sums up Yorkshire at its best, proud and enduring, historic and strong.

But it was the little pots of helibores, or as mum called them Christmas roses, that made my eyes leak. Every Christmas day Mum used to cut a small bunch, one for me and one for my sister in law Jane (the mother of the bride) and bring them to us wrapped in damp kitchen roll for our Christmas tables.

That she was remembered at her granddaughter’s wedding and that the same white Christmas roses were there as a reminder of those no longer with us was a small but emotional moment. And I can promise you Holly, one of them will be planted in her beloved Rosedale Abbey where her ashes are scattered as a tribute to her.

Not quite so perfect was my contribution to the wedding dessert table. Make something granny would have made, said Jane.

After a momentarily panic as a non-baker I decided four dozen rice crispy buns was to be my contribution sprinkled with hundreds and thousands just as we used to make them as children with her and just as her grandchildren, including the bride did too. Nigella I am not but I hope those krispie buns made her smile down on us all. We knew what they meant to our family even if they were not the culinary triumph she would have contributed.

Of course the tears really flowed when Holly walked down the aisle on the arm of my brother as a beautiful bride. How lovely she looked and how happy. Beaming and confident as any young woman on her wedding day should be. And what a treasured day it was. What memories were made, what acquaintances were renewed and how wonderful to see her only remaining grandparent Maria at 91 enjoying every moment.

Of course it was only right and proper to ask her how she was doing after losing the love of her life Stanley not long ago. “I am absolutely fine Christa,” was her response. “I talk to him every day and he is still with me reminding me how lucky I am to be here to enjoy this wonderful happy occasion.” That made me cry too, for a generation who rarely showed their emotions but felt everything we feel, just more quietly.

So I understand what Dame Sheila Hancock said when she talked of public shows of emotion, that crying in public was sometimes hollow and meaningless and worn “as a badge of honour.”

I only ever saw my father cry once when his only brother committed suicide in his early 40s and then he went outside to do so. “Leave him,” said my mum, “he won’t want you to see him crying.”

So I understand what Sheila is saying.

But I still think there is nothing wrong with tears unless of course they are crocodile tears. And trust me I soon learned you can see through those a mile off.

As a child I used to pretend to cry when I was, quite rightly, in trouble for something or other I had done. It worked with my granny who used to give me crochet-edged handkerchiefs and mint imperials to ease my tears. But it never worked with mum. And why should it ? They were not genuine tears. They were a display of being found out and attempt to get away with it.

“What are you crying for," she would say as my sobs got louder and more dramatic. “Get up to your bedroom and come down when you are ready.”

Or on rare occasions when the sobbing got simply ridiculous. “Stop crying or I will give you something to really cry about.”

It might not be appropriate in today’s touchy feely world to repeat that story. But I bet it’s a childhood phrase many of you will have heard too. And it usually worked.

The most often asked question about my years on television is how did you not get emotional? How did you not cry at the terrible stories you reported on or were forced to read out? I did I can assure you. But like that generation of my father’s there is, and always will be, a time and a place for tears.

Tomorrow will be a time for tears for many for those no longer at the Christmas dinner table, perhaps for the first time. But make sure they are tears for all they have meant to you and for the memories made with them. And enjoy every moment. Do what that generation did and count your blessings.

Make it a happy Christmas. And please be merry and bright. Make every day count. But especially Christmas Day. It’s not what is wrapped under the trees that makes Christmas special. It is those you spend it with. Joy to you all.