Christmas. There - I've said it - out in the open. Actually, who am I kidding - we've been discussing it for months. Hubby usually begins in about August. He's a big fan.
There's great pleasure to be had in the familiarity of our celebrations. We know where the tree stands (constrained by plug points for the lights). There are strategic hooks, hidden by the curtains for most of the year, to fasten the garland on to. When those boxes emerge from the loft, full of treasures to be re-discovered, I know where things go. It's the feeling of being rooted.
But there is the conflicting siren call of the novel - something which makes the decorations a little different. Last year, I tried to persuade everybody to embrace the Charlie Brown style nearly bald tree. They wouldn't, so I had to content myself with fastening a big branch to the wall. Then everyone liked it so much, that it's remained up all year. Sometimes, you just need to force change on your family.
When the christmas editions of all the glossy magazines appear on the shelves, I begin to get that little frisson of excitement. What will the new stuff look like? For a long time, I was a colour scheme purist. Red red red all the way, with lots of wood and pinecones. But then those beautiful jewel tones sucked me in, so in one room, there is now turquoise and purple and lime green with chocolate brown and lots of siver.
Though this year, I have to say I have found flipping through the magazines rather disappointing. There's nothing enticing beckoning me. I feel like I've seen it all before. Maybe it's the recession and spending money on such things feels a little like senseless frivolity. Should we not all be hunkering down and paring back?
But flying joyfully in the face of global financial meltdown, there is still that glorious burst of personal creativity to celebrate. And things popping up that I just have to add to our mix. Like this little icord wreath.
Here are the instructions in case you feel similarly.
What about your Christmas decorating this year? Sticking with the familiar or succumbing to the siren call of the novel?