Christmas comes early

Do you go early or late with your decorations?

Too early? Too late? When is the right time to get your Christmas decorations up?

I wrote this piece last year after being spectacularly late with mine. I hope you enjoy it.

I spot the first Christmas tree in November, just after Halloween, when most of the street is still decorated with pumpkins and cobwebs. It stands in the house on the corner, its lights flashing.

‘They’re early,’ I say to Chris as we drive past.

‘There should be laws against that,’ he says. ‘I mean, we’re only just out of British Summer Time.’

Soon after, I spot another tree, a wreath or two, and then Santa in his sleigh. Every time I see something, I point it out to Chris, and we laugh and roll our eyes.

‘It’s far too early for Christmas,’ I say. ‘It still feels like summer. We should be in August.’

Chris nods, and we drive on, happy to delay any thought of Christmas for a few more weeks.

By the end of November, one house on our street is decorated top to bottom with fairy lights.

‘They’re organised.’ I’m impressed they’ve attached lights to every inch of their house with no drama. If we’d attempted such elaborate lighting, we’d have ended up in A&E after a fall or electrocution.

‘I think they’ve been up all year,’ Chris says. ‘Just not lit up.’

‘Have they?’ I’m not sure if that’s ridiculously lazy or a great way of getting ahead during what is, without a doubt, the most stressful time of year. ‘They’ve still gone too soon, though.’

‘Definitely,’ Chris agrees.

The rest of the street thinks otherwise. On the first weekend in December, they transform the estate into a winter wonderland. There are stars and lanterns, snowmen and snow scenes, fairy lights and fairies. There’s even a life-size grinch.

People have stepped up their efforts more this year than ever before.

‘Perhaps they want something to look forward to,’ I say, thinking it might be a response to the turbulent times. ‘Maybe it’s us who are miserable.’

Chris nods. ‘Yes, miserable. That’s us.’

A few more weeks pass. The temperature plummets, and the world turns a frosty white, bringing with it a Christmassy feel.

‘We need to sort our decorations,’ I tell Chris. He nods but doesn’t leave his office.

I put the wreath on the door, take Winter Wendy from the wardrobe and plonk her on the living room windowsill. Out shopping with Mum, I buy a few more window decorations. Anyone passing will think we are just as festive as the other folks on the street. It seems enough for now.

But then my friend visits. ‘Where’s your tree?’ she asks.

‘In the garage.’

‘Liz!’ She takes hold of my hand. ‘You really need to get the tree up. It’s Christmas next week.’

I feel the first pang of Christmas shame, embarrassed that my tree is still in its box.

The minute she’s gone, I call up to Chris, who is still in his office working from home.

‘Stop what you’re doing. We need to sort Christmas.’ My voice is high. ‘It’s in 10 days. We need to get the wooden reindeer out.’

‘They might need repairing,’ he says.

‘Why? What’s wrong with them?’

‘We damaged a few in the house move.’

‘Damaged!’

‘They’ve done three moves. It’s a miracle they survived.’

Chris heads into the garage to take stock of the reindeer situation. He returns, looking glum. ‘They’re missing legs and antlers.’

‘But they were so lovely.’ I know they aren’t real, but I feel a genuine sense of loss at their demise.

‘And the snowman,’ Chris says. ‘He’s missing an arm, a hat and a scarf.’

‘Let me see.’ I follow him into the garage to assess the reindeers for myself.

Out of the four, only one has escaped injury. One is missing an antler, one needs a new leg, and the other is missing three legs, both antlers, and his head is in danger of wobbling off.

‘That’s the one your dad made,’ Chris says, picking up what’s left of the reindeer and cradling it in his arms.

‘It was amazing.’ Dad had made it much bigger than the others. It had a red scarf, a bright red bauble nose, and such a happy face. Now he’s no more than a log.

‘Can we save him?’ I ask.

‘We can try. We have enough legs.’ Chris points to a box filled with twigs for reindeer body parts.

We bundle the three reindeer, the snowman and the box of body parts into the back of the car and drive to Mum and Dad’s house for emergency repairs. ‘Dad, can you save them?’

Dad is on his feet straight away, grabbing his toolbox and promising to do his best.

A few days later, Mum calls. ‘The reindeer are ready.’

‘Are they okay?’

‘One of them almost had his head put on the wrong way, but I spotted it before your dad glued it.’

‘That’s good.’ I am genuinely relieved that my herd is on the mend. ‘What about the one that Dad made?’

‘We couldn’t save him.’ Mum lowers her voice to deliver the sad news.

‘What a shame. One house move too many for him.’

‘Something is always lost in a house move,’ Mum says.

‘My mind,’ I say, remembering the stress of it all.

‘Onwards,’ she says. ‘Pick them up when you’re ready.’

With the reindeer and snowman taken care of, I turn my attention to the Christmas tree. We bought it a few years ago on Christmas Eve, reduced in the sale. The picture on the box looked amazing but has no resemblance to the tree inside. ‘It’s underwhelming,’ Chris said when we put it up.

And then, on a Zoom call during lockdown, a man in my writers’ group had stopped mid-sentence. ‘What a poor excuse for a Christmas tree. Get it decorated. Get some baubles on it.’

‘It’s okay when it’s lit up,’ I said, feeling all defensive.

But he had a point—it needs more baubles. I add emergency bauble shopping to my list of things to do before Christmas. But with all the shopping for presents, the wrapping, working, sorting our animals, not to mention enjoying the festivities, it falls to the bottom of my list of priorities.

As the clock ticks closer to Christmas, I’m struck down by one of the many cold and flu bugs. Getting out of bed and commuting to my home office takes all my energy.

There is nothing left for baubles. I’m thinking we’ll not even bother with the tree when my friend messages to see if I am ready for Christmas.

‘The tree’s still in its box,’ I confess.

‘GET YOUR TREE UP!’

Again, I feel the pang of Christmas shame.

By Thursday, only three days before Christmas, we take action. Under the cover of darkness, we tiptoe outside to retrieve the tree from the garage, hoping the neighbours don’t notice us. ‘They’re late with their tree,’ I imagine them saying. ‘We’ve had ours up since June.’

We make it back into the house without being spotted, take the tree out of its box, plump up the branches, and untangle the lights.

‘It looks good,’ Chris says. ‘It’d look better with some bright baubles. I’ll get some in January for next year.’

I smile, suddenly feeling all festive. The tree is up, the reindeer and snowman are in the garden, Winter Wendy is on the windowsill. Maybe next year, we could follow the rest of the street and decorate the outside of the house in fairy lights. Just as I’m thinking about it, a branch on the tree snaps off and falls to the floor.

‘On second thoughts, maybe baubles will be enough.’

Do you go early or late with your decorations? Let me know in the comments.

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