Un-deck the halls

Three men in high-vis jackets and the municipal cherry picker signalled the end of Christmas. I saw them in the High Street, late on Sunday evening, dismantling the lights and coiling the cables away. Two days were yet to pass until twelfth night. Not so much the Grinch that stole Christmas but the pinch of recession perhaps? Let’s hope some contemporary magi weren’t relying on festive lighting to illuminate their way to the bin store of the Travel Lodge.

Whether in the High Street or the home, I miss the Christmas lights when they come down. Their sudden absence seems to usher in the gloominess that descends and settles miasma-like in January: the disappearance of sparkle; the packing away of the feeling of magic and that anything might just happen; the snuffing out of optimism; and a whole aching chasm of time to fill with dreary work and chores and bill paying until the next holiday period arrives.

Personally, I’m not inclined to join the post Christmas light austerity brigade just yet. Yes, I know if you don’t haul your decorations down by 12th night then you have to wait until Easter or something to do so – but that’s OK with me. Our lights are still shining brightly out of the window and inside the house. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to meet the gloom that will descend once I take them down.

And so that if there are three wise chaps wandering about with gifts of precious metals and rare perfumes, they know where to come.