All children love lights. As do I. For the first time, I have lights on our tree out front. That’s just for me; it’s an inexplicable dream come true. However, I have resisted the urge to festoon the frontage with illuminated and inflatable Santas and steam trains (the festive significance of which eludes me). I’ve attempted a simple but elegant outdoor display that doesn’t disturb the neighbours too much or, for that matter, my electricity bill and doesn’t tempt passing airliners to try a landing. Still, I can hear Mrs Stafford from across the way scratching a complaint to the municipal authorities.
I did however break one tradition this year: I didn’t buy a tree that was patently too large for my house. Normally my enthusiasm and delusions of grandeur reduce the living room within the Living Room to standing space only. And then it’s a squeeze for any more than three adults at a time. Movement between upstairs and down becomes only possible via windows and ladders.
Instead, we have a perfectly-formed five-footer and what it lacks in height, it more than makes up for in brightness. One hundred and fifty, multi-coloured bulbs with eight flash settings. Oh yes. Just call me Mister Sophisticated.
It took just ninety minutes to coil the hundred metres of flex in a spiral around the branches. And a further two hours to located to broken bulb. But it was worth the wait. What a sight. The impact of ‘switching-on’ was significantly improved by the coincidental dimming of every other light in the street, the blackout of the television and the activation of our neighbour’s alarm. Magnificent.
Little S. sat in the glow and laughed in delight for five solid minutes, slapping her thighs in ecstasy. I think she’d have carried on but by that time she was already a little sunburnt and we thought she’d probably had enough radiation for one day.
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