I always feel a pang of sadness when I have to take the Christmas decorations down. As I wrap the glass ones in copious amounts of tissue paper, I wonder how I’d like it, to be a Christmas decoration that gets just four weeks a year of fresh air and ends up spending the rest of it sweating out in the attic in the warmer months and shivering in the colder ones. I presume January must be the most difficult time for the Christmas decorations, knowing that after gorging the spotlight for the whole of December, they are off on a detox diet of silence and coldness. At night, when I hear small hushed noises from the attic, I always think it’s them, jumping out of their boxes and living it high in a Toy Story meets Beauty and The Beast manner. Then I get up the following morning, and pass by the lounge and wish they were all down here singing and dancing, lightening up the mood of the home when all I can do is wait for Valentine’s Day to approach.
This year it took me a good three days to pack and store everything away, not simply because I couldn’t dedicate a good 8-hour stretch to the job but, if greater truth should be told, because I really have a lot of Christmas stuff. There are the trees (four, even though usually it’s only two that see the light of the season for I decidedly lack the space for more), the stockings, the cards, and then the wreaths, the garlands, the lights, the nativity set and numerous ornaments that end up infesting every corner of the house, from study to kitchen via bathroom and porch. Of course I do not resent putting them up when the time is right, but I do dislike the packing up process. It takes less time, but the emptiness it leaves in the house is not conductive to appreciating the task in any way whatsoever. And so this year I have left a number of fairy lights around, and I can tell you that the plain ones, even when set within clear bubles are decidedly un-Christmassy when on their own and so will provide me with comfort and joy all year round.
