There is controversy over when is the real Twelfth Night. I like to follow ritual, it holds me in place. The radio presenters I heard yesterday seemed to ally with the notion that it was yesterday so the decorations came down. It wasn’t a complicated procedure – though the thought of it was a heavy one. I prefer our home without frippery and yet I have enjoyed, as has he, the sparkling lights. We have little. There is my stylised tree, a white wire tree shape with tiny red lights, 4 sets of fairy lights, an unadorned birch heart shape wreath for the front door and some pine cones sprayed silver. That is all. And I like that. So there is no dying tree that has to be dragged, gracelessly to the bins leaving browned pine needles in its wake (though the bag with the pine cones did burst sending them tumbling down the stairs scattering flecks of silver dust – what did you say? he asked. Bloody hell, I replied. Though I must admit the sound of the tumbling and the sight of the shining pine cones littering the stairs and shared hallway (such a memory of her she was always spraying things silver for Christmas) was rather delightful). The house is empty now. And I like the vacancy.
