As it reaches the rooftops, I rootle for the secateurs, push my feet into garden shoes, and go out into the soft drizzle.
This year, the thing on the Close is preternaturally large inflatable Father Christmases, Snowmen, and one Homer Simpson (in a Father Christmas hat. He never seems to be fully inflated, so spends his days slumped, bob-feeding from nextdoor's wheelie bin). Last year and the year before the Close virus was gaudy outdoor loops and icicles of flashing bulbs. Last year’s bulbs meet this year’s inflatables, in a blink and a blur of where shop ends and home begins.
Inflatables, bulbs, and brash Christmas tunes from a party at the end of the Close. All lighting up the silhouette of rooftop against watercolour winter sky.
At the foot of the garden I hunt out the Blackpool of bushes, and cut its glitziest branches.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Genuflect
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