We have taken down the Christmas decorations. I'm now no longer sure whether, in purely superstitious terms, this ought not to have been done the previous day, but yesterday I was convinced that 6th January was the proper date. The Systems Administrator didn't seem to have a firm view one way or another, so it is evidently not a matter of great concern in north Wales.
I always have mixed feelings about seeing the tree go, on the one hand regret, that the pretty tree is gone for another year, and on the other hand relief, because in all honesty it has ceased to be so pretty, and started to shed needles all over the floor. I managed to get all the decorations off without dropping any of the glass baubles. I told myself as I unpicked them that they were only things, and that if I broke one it wouldn't be the end of the world, while knowing that if I did smash any of the more precious ones I should be deeply upset.
I didn't trust myself to wobble around on top of the stepladder, so the SA removed the topmost decorations that I couldn't reach standing on a dining chair, partly by the expedient of simply cutting some of the top branches off with secateurs. Of course that isn't an option while you're putting the tree up. The poor, bare remains were carried out into the garden in a trail of pine needles, though they won't be wasted, since I'll shred the carcass at some point to make a nice, acid mulch for the blueberries.
Everything else has gone too. The Christmas cards into the paper recycling, after copying out any new addresses into the address book, plus the names of people's children where I haven't already written them down. In a world where every third child seems to be called Ellie or Ollie, it's difficult to keep track, or to remember which ones are Lucie with an i e not a y, and whether Madison has one d or two. The cards with glitter have gone into the general rubbish, in case glitter is not recyclable. The giant candle holder has gone back into the spare bedroom (note to self: buy new giant candle for next year). The red tablecloth and the white lace tablecloth are in a heap next to the laundry basket, waiting for me to scrape and iron* the wax drips out of them, and darn the hole where a match got accidentally dropped on the lace one. For next Christmas we might be real devils and splash out on a new tablecloth.
The SA swept up a great quantity of pine needles, to save the vacuum cleaner, which does its best but has a hard life with all the cat fur, and is not so young as it was. Then the SA vacuumed the sitting room, and the litter of needles down the stairs and through the hall, and then in a burst of energy vacuumed the bedroom, and came back to find more pine needles had appeared in the sitting room where there hadn't been any twenty minutes previously. The greenery has all gone from the mantelpiece, and the ivy stems and flashing lights from the stairs.
There is still a heap of wax on the mantelpiece, where one of the church candles suddenly went into melt-down, but I think I'll save scraping that up until I'm feeling a trifle stronger. In the meantime, after reading through a couple of my old Art Fund magazines, I've decided that the pile of books and pair of pewter plates on the sofa do not mean that the room is a mess. On the contrary, they are an art installation.
*With a warm iron and a great deal of kitchen roll. It's a good idea afterwards to use the iron on some old t-shirts you are not desperately fond of, before using it on a favourite piece of silk or other fine fabric.
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