Petit Sapin de Noël

For several days our Christmas tree has stood naked and forlorn in one of the old chimney pots we brought with us from our terraced house in Sheffield.

Until this evening, that is. Spurred on by the pulsating funk of Azymuth’s ‘Jazz Carnival’ – who remembers dancing to that on disco floors as the ‘70s turned into the ‘80s, pop-pickers? – we three set to during an hour of concerted activity to dress our tree and turn it into something symbolic and magical.

It’s a symbolic moment because it means that Christmas is really coming on strong now. I don’t count the electric houses that have been brazenly flashing their wares at passing motorists between here and Brive for the last ten days or so. Climbing Santas and winking lights are everywhere, but I don’t count them: all those brash decorations fail to speak of Christmas spirit – just life’s relentless competition to keep up with the Joneses/Du Ponts.

I love our petit sapin de Noël – and all that goes with it. Decorating it this evening made me feel as happy and as excited about the coming of Christmas as it makes me feel sad and deflated when we sweep up all the fallen pine needles and carefully put the decorations back in the box marked ‘Xmas Dex’ for next year.



Myrtle poised to pounce

It means now that when I get up each morning, the routine includes switching on the Christmas tree lights. They stay on till the shutters rise to let in the morning and they come back on as soon as they go down to shut out the night. Myrtle has already left the box of chestnuts by the fire – surely the equivalent of a bed of nails – to park her extremely large frame on the steps beside the tree in an attempt to hook off a bauble or two.

Now that the tree is decorated and our friend Dan has brought us back a copy of the Christmas Radio Times from his recent trip to Bristol, I’m made up. I’m too old to open the little doors of advent calendars, so I leave that to Tilley. She announces the day each morning like a sailor reading out the depth.



My excitement builds up to a crescendo on Christmas Eve. That’s just about my favourite day of the year: the shortest day has been and gone, so we’re back on the slow climb towards balmy days and light evenings; the presents are wrapped and sitting round the tree; my wife is off work and our daughter has ‘broken up’ and the Big Day is still to come. By the 25^th, everything has already started to deflate. Melancholia sets in, as it does on the longest day of the year, like the coming of a cold.



Daisy unimpressed by her sister's antics



But, hey! I’m not going to start thinking about that on this joyful evening. Thanks to our little tree from the local Intermarché in its Sheffield chimney pot, I’m going to start focusing my thoughts on the last moments of Christmas Eve: when we’ve probably watched a good movie and switched off the telly and the whole house is silent – nothing stirring, not even the mouse that Myrtle has brought in and set free so she can spend the next few days playing a game of watch and wait, not even Alf wriggling in his wicker basket – and Debs and I can sneak a stocking into Tilley’s bedroom, and then leave one for each other at the foot of our bed in readiness for the morrow.

There’s an Arctic wind blowing tonight, which presages the snow forecast for the end of the week. So who knows? Christmas 2010 could well be a white one. The last one of those we had here, Debs slipped and broke her shoulder. Er… what was I saying about the magic of Christmas?