I was going to start my Christmas decorating in October this year. I was determined.
Didn’t happen.
I know there is a phalanx of protesters who believe there should not be so much as a bauble visible in shops until at least after Halloween, if not Thanksgiving, but I’m not one of those folk. When we live on an island where there’s no immediate Amazon, eager beavers like me rely on the local shops to get the gear out as soon as the temperature drops below 90°F. We wait for the arrival of the ‘Christmas breeze’ – when you can walk outside and the makeup doesn’t slide off your face like the opening-of-the-Ark scene in Indiana Jones’ ‘Raiders’. That’s when we know it’s time to get out the tinsel.
Speaking of which, whatever happened to tinsel? And those strands of ‘angel hair’ that we’d throw on trees? Sometimes we don’t realise that certain items that were always part of our lives simply aren’t around anymore, until we look at old photos or memories are jogged. Man … the angel hair, particularly if there were pets in the house. We’d be finding it for months after the holidays had long been done. Back of the couch; plant pots; drawers … And nothing looked more like missing silver jewellery than one of those strands.
“Found it! Ugh, no – sorry – angel hair!”
Any of you who have read my column fairly regularly will know that I am a huge fan of dressing up the house for Christmas – definitely a Clark W. Griswold devotee. I’m also not so great about taking things down and storing them after; but I outdid myself over the past year.
The flame tree in the front yard has had three decorations, designed to look like giant C9 bulbs, hanging from it since last December. I put them up there myself in the fall of ‘24 (the story began). “ … I remember it like it was yesterday. The air was crisp, and the chickens lay splayed out on the grass, eager to catch the final rays of the sun before it dipped below …
“ … shouted expletives as the sharp branches of that sodding tree connected with floppy, untoned flesh, scoring it until blood was drawn, as I reached in vain to hang the final ornament …”
Yes, it had been a trial, and the thought of ascending the ladder – standing on uneven ground, peppered with land crab holes – to unravel my work, did not appeal. I therefore left them hanging. I just didn’t turn their lights on.
They were dark green when I hung them up 12 months ago. Now I’d call them a light mint.
The same can be said for the Santa/roaring fire/reindeer trio I’d put on the lawn on the other side of the driveway. That set had actually survived Christmas 2023, and it had been nicely stored in its original box around February last year, but when it came out last November, it was never to return to the attic.
Being the laziest person on the face of the Earth, I had never bothered to properly connect Santa’s head to his body with twist ties. He and his marshmallow-toasting buddy, Rudolph, stood just fine on still days, but anything above a starling’s whisper threatened to knock them backwards. Or, even worse, Santa’s body would dig its heels in, but his noggin would drop backwards. It became a bit of a ritual that the little girl living across the road would walk over each evening and ‘fix’ our display. Probably good training to toughen her up, not being traumatised by a headless Santa. I’ve decided that was my excuse for leaving them out there well after the last jingle bells had rung. I didn’t want to take her fun away.
But even she gave up around April, and who could blame her? Once you get past the toughening up stage, you start to question why the neighbour can’t fix their own d**n displays. And what was Santa still doing on the lawn anyway? Didn’t he have to get back to the North Pole to prepare for the year ahead? He couldn’t be lollygagging around in the Caribbean, eating marshmallows 24/7 when there was work to be done.
By August, the gardeners too had given up hoping that anything would be moved, and so they relocated the holiday scene to a rocky area so they could get to the grass. Santa’s jacket is now a faded pink and Rudolph has a severe case of jaundice. The same shop where I bought them still has them in stock, and I thought about buying new ones, but the price made me balk. I may invest in some spray paint and see if I can’t just get my two to shine again at a fraction of the cost.
I suspect next week’s column will write itself …
When November came around this year, I really was going to get on the decorating from the first weekend. But, as usual, life got in the way, and now I’m staring down the barrel of December. I did manage to get the icicle lights up this week. And, for the second time around, I got someone to do it for me, rather than clambering up there myself. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I didn’t have to give them much guidance, beyond “just follow the path of the ones that are still up there”. Truly pathetic.
On the other hand, lights I’d left in the bushes from last Christmas are still working a treat, and it looks like I’ve really put the effort into placing them deep so you can’t see the wires. I don’t tell anyone that the hedge has simply grown up around them.
Actually, I correct myself. The LED lights are still great. The regular bulbs (the thin things that break under the weight of a strong gaze; the resulting shards you find in your bare feet for months after) are pulling their usual nonsense of only half-strands working. I suppose, in fairness, they’ve been exposed to the elements for ages, but I’ve had that happen when they’re nearly fresh out of the box. They are rubbish flimsy.
I’ve tried to avert my eyes from the wondrous sights in the home stores. It’s difficult, but my hide has thickened over time – I’m not the easy mark I once was. Put it down to one season after the next, when reindeer have fallen over; assembly instructions are like the technical challenge in ‘The Great British Bake Off’ – missing great chunks of information; a snowman refuses to remain erect on his ice skate; inflatables flatten when the air vent gets blocked; and so many other delightful festive experiences.
I swear, the day after I wrote this, I went into A. L. Thompson’s to buy light clips, and I came out with light clips and … a Santa post box with a charming, lit-up snowy scene in the front, a spinning Christmas tree in the town square, music, and two red-breasted robins perched on the top.
There’s no ho-ho-hope for me.
Related Videos
