Any day now it will start. We vow every year that next year will be different, but it never is. Each year it's as if we've never been here before - on the Great Christmas Decorations Hunt (also known as the "where-in-God's-name-are-the-Christmas-lights-and-are-they-still-worki ng" dilemma).
It will start with himself wandering abstractedly around the house.
"Are you lost?", I'll say. "No", he'll reply, "just wondering where we put the Christmas decorations."
He'll be looking in the most unlikely places as he speaks - like under cushions and in the hot press.
"Under the stairs?" I'll suggest. "No, I looked there."
What he actually means is that he opened the little cubby door and the decorations didn't immediately offer themselves up so he shut it again. I know they're in there. I also know that there's almost 12 months' rubbish on top of them. Every time a strange car drew up in the last year, three days' newspapers and other assorted items of clutter got hurriedly flung in with a silent prayer that the door stayed shut.
"Don't worry," I'll say, "I'll have a look tomorrow."
"We really should have a designated place for them," he'll say - "that way, we wouldn't have to tear the place apart."
Heartily sick
What he forgets is that, come January 6th, we'll be so heartily sick of tinsel and trinkets that we'd gleefully burn them. Chucking them under the stairs is as good as it gets. It is the designated place.
And so our Christmas will have started. I'll keep putting off the hunt until it's absolutely necessary. When I can no longer put it off, I'll tackle the cupboard. I'll have been right - the bag will be there with all our Christmas treasures a little more dented and a little more faded than last year. When I appraise them, I'll think for the nth time that we really should have some new ones.
Trouble is, I can't bear to part with this tat. These are our original "Our Family" decorations that we bought for our first married Christmas. Our Angel is married as long as we are and, no more than ourselves, she's a bit knackered. She's had two separate tinfoil wing replacements, one new frock (in 22 years) and is more than ready for a hair transplant. We tried a head transplant with a Barbie once, but it didn't work. It was top-heavy and she kept dive-bombing off the tree with a fixed, manic grin that scared the children.
Soft lighting
No. She'll have to stay. Nothing else will do. We'll give her the benefit of soft lighting - the days when she can tolerate strong light under the face are gone. I know the feeling. We'll put a pink bulb behind her - that'll help.
The fairy lights. I'll sit on the floor and try to untangle them. Some of the little covers are missing, but I know I'll find them at the bottom of the bag. The big question here is: Are They Working? Himself will happen along around now and observe: "You've found them! Where were they?"
"Under the stairs," I'll say.
"But I looked there. They must have been hidden."
He'll disappear with the lights and no, they won't be working. We'll eventually find the spare bulbs, check every connection, change the fuse in the plug, check the sockets, check the bulbs again and they still won't be working. Not to be bested, he'll take them away and fiddle with them for hours. Eureka! They're working. . .No they're not. . .Yes they are. . .flickering a little - a lot. Still, it's progress.
The crib will start to emerge now. I gave in and bought a new crib two years ago, but I couldn't jettison the old lot. The new one is wooden and modern and lovely and signed on the base by the person who lovingly carved the pieces but, in my heart, the mish-mash of figurines in the bag is my real crib. It was cobbled together from rejects of other people's lives with the result that I had grossly disproportionate characters - but so what? The fact that I have a plastic sheep that towers over the terracotta ox which is, in turn, like Godzilla compared with the porcelain shepherds is, I think, quaint. Over the years, they've seen huge changes in Bethlehem - from cotton wool snow to fancy spray stuff that glistens like frost. I'll leave them in the bag in favour of the wooden perfection but, if nobody's looking, I'll give them a quick rub and tell them I'm rooting for them.
Hot on the heels of all this activity will come the Great Tree Debate. We will agonise over the merits of artificial versus real. Our sensibilities will tell us that, if we have one at all (after all, we have no small children any more), we should have an artificial one. No mess, no fuss, a one-off, eco-friendly purchase and even we couldn't mislay something like a tree. We agree it would be the best thing to do - but neither of us will do it. The dilemma will drag on until the shops have sold out and we have no option but to go for a real one. Quelle dommage. We will then go out and buy something lopsided and bald that sheds when you look at it. (I think it's the Ugly Duckling syndrome.) Anyway, there's no point in putting our Angel on a perfect tree. That would only be rubbing it in.
Make it different
So, with time still to go, I could make it different. Tackle the cupboard earlier, buy the tree now, get the Angel kitted out or trade her in. Truth is, I don't want to. There is so much change around us that I find it comforting to have some sort of steadfast ritual.
I'll peg the decorations back into the cupboard on January 6th and know that I'll go through all this again - down to the frantic rush on Christmas Eve to buy new fairy lights, just in case.