my home matters, I like it to look lovely, if a little grubby and tired. At this time of the winter solstice , and impending Noel , more so than ever. Unkind people might say our home is gloomy, I prefer to think of it as atmospheric – besides too much illumination is never a good thing, it shows up the dirt.
So I spend hours creating a 7 foot Christmas tree that looks as though it has just flown in from fairyland, I truly bedeck the halls, trailing boughs and branches of holly and ivy ( and any other foliage that takes my fancy when I’m out with my hound), though I say it myself, it looks magnificent.
Every year I make my thumbs sore from cramming cloves into oranges, all senses must be catered for after all, it’s worth every nano second of effort.
Then come the Christmas cards, they start to trickle in, for a week or so I pile them up in the kitchen, and I tell myself that this year I will find a creative way to display them. The pile grows ever larger, it taunts me.
the majority of them are ghastly, garish bucolic robins, cards so thin they will not even stand up unsupported.
i love all the people that send them, but the truth is I loathe the cards.
They have so far come to rest in a tottering heap, on top of the piano,they sit there, taunting me for my snobbery.i am silently hoping that they will all accidentally slip down the back of the piano, never to be seen again