Sunday, January 06, 2008
There's a confession I need to make, before this year gets much older.
I don't hate Christmas.
I don't hate turkey, or mince pies or pudding or trees.
I don't hate "It's A Wonderful Life" or "Silent Night" or "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses and I don't think football needs a mid-season break.
I don't like taking the decorations down. If putting them up is accompanied by a fair amount of cursing (it is) then taking them down is accomplished in a mournful silence.
Getting everything back into the box (the box that was my mum's wedding dress box, before it became the decorations box) has become easier year by year. I inherited three boxes of ancient, extremely fragile and probably highly dangerous glass baubles, we're now down to one. Last year I finally managed to bring myself to throw out the indestructible multi-coloured plastic balls that were all the rage in ... oh 1971? and replaced them with something less...vibrant...from IKEA. There are the three angels, acquired over the years and arranged in hierarchy at the top of the tree, the wooden soldiers, skaters and Santa, the plastic snowflakes, the knitted stockings, the glass heart on a red ribbon - they all have stories which some years I can remember and some years ... well, I know they all have a story.
For the past few years I've thought maybe this will be the last time I'll bother, it's not as if the Boys are actually Boys anymore, who would care?
Christmas cake, I can take or leave.
I don't hate Christmas.
I don't hate turkey, or mince pies or pudding or trees.
I don't hate "It's A Wonderful Life" or "Silent Night" or "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses and I don't think football needs a mid-season break.
I don't like taking the decorations down. If putting them up is accompanied by a fair amount of cursing (it is) then taking them down is accomplished in a mournful silence.
Getting everything back into the box (the box that was my mum's wedding dress box, before it became the decorations box) has become easier year by year. I inherited three boxes of ancient, extremely fragile and probably highly dangerous glass baubles, we're now down to one. Last year I finally managed to bring myself to throw out the indestructible multi-coloured plastic balls that were all the rage in ... oh 1971? and replaced them with something less...vibrant...from IKEA. There are the three angels, acquired over the years and arranged in hierarchy at the top of the tree, the wooden soldiers, skaters and Santa, the plastic snowflakes, the knitted stockings, the glass heart on a red ribbon - they all have stories which some years I can remember and some years ... well, I know they all have a story.
For the past few years I've thought maybe this will be the last time I'll bother, it's not as if the Boys are actually Boys anymore, who would care?
Christmas cake, I can take or leave.
