Yesterday was a busy day. Errands were run, visits were paid, work was turned in and a ritual tidy-up exploded into a massive clean-come-rearrangement of my entire apartment. All for the sake of a tree.
Today will be simpler. Me and my tree. I haven't had a tree in years and I'm feeling pretty Tiggerish about the whole affair. But the same ritual is being repeated in homes all around the world. Children are learning that early association between the smell of fir trees and all Christmas entails, unaware of how they'll seek it out later, burying their heads in conifers in garden centres and farms.
Ornaments are unwrapped and recollected. Some people make themes and colour schemes, but not the Flanagans: We're big on eclectic trees with a mishmash of memories and ornaments collected over our lifetimes. I'll remember too my favourite trees ever: The O'Hanrahan's and the Mrs Byrne's — hers always seemed to reach her ceiling.
And I'll remember just sitting on the floor, systematically tightening bulbs in strings of lights they don't make any more, the flocked reindeer we would put on top of the telly they don't make any more either. And dear old Baggins. How he used to sit under the tree, nosing the ornaments and glare when I reached for a red bow or a stand of tinsel to tie around his neck.
Products: Tree via | Alpaca Batwing Pullover from Toast | Belle Earrings from Workhorse Jewelry | Rag & Bone The Dash Jean from La Garconne | Spirit slippers from Stubbs & Wootten