Dear reader...
ONE OF MY favourite moments in the days before Christmas is taking the decorations down from the loft. I can’t say I relish climbing the ladder and pushing up the hatch, holding my breath against the dust and cobwebs, but as I poke my head into the chill of the roof, torch gripped between my chin and shoulder, the box of treasures balanced on the beams is reward for my short expedition.
Dusting off the cardboard, warped and fusty from the dank air, my decorations sit, wrapped in tissue and bits of yellowing newspaper: a year is long enough for some of the contents to be almost forgotten. Gently opening each bundle, I’m comforted by returning memories of past Christmases, as each decoration recalls a story or moment in the history of my family.
First is a set of tiny wooden painted characters: an elf, a reindeer, a white-and-gold rocking horse, and – the one that always gets a welcome hurrah – the wonky snowman.
There’s a stained-glass tree, glinting in green and red, bought from a snug canalside workshop on a chilly outing one foggy day early in December.
And, at the bottom, nestled in an old biscuit tin, is the oldest and certainly the least dazzling of them all, but at around 45 years old, you can forgive ‘toilet roll Father Christmas’. Made by my brother and I at primary school, he sports a faded crepe-paper coat and cotton wool buttons. His fragile paper face is scribbled in felt pen. He’s certainly not at his most vibrant these days, but no tree, or Christmas, is complete without him.