It’s late, far too late to be trying to write this, but if I
don’t I’ll feel that an opportunity has been lost. Quite what that opportunity
is I have no idea. Most of the time it feels like I’m talking to myself, which I’ve
actually started to do.
It’s late. Did I mention that?
Yes, you did.
I did, didn’t I? Sorry.
No need to apologise.
Ten minutes that’s
all. Ten minutes and then we can both go to sleep. Okay?
Okay.
We put the decorations up yesterday. It used to be something
I really looked forward to; but these days the aches and pains, the bending and
stretching, make it something of a trial. Gone are the days I’d hike deep into
the forest collecting holly and ivy, transforming them into natural garlands to
string across the room. These days I’m happy to settle for plastic and silk, my
‘au natural’ days far behind me.
It’s not simply the physical pain either. It seems that as I
get older the decoration of halls and the titillation of fir trees seems
somehow less important. It isn’t so much getting older as growing away from the
child I once was. I fight against it though, and thus far the child has won. But
I feel him slipping back, losing himself in the forest we once both explored.
So the trees are all decorated, the banister garlanded, paper-chains
(courtesy of Holly) hang from our ceilings, a multitude of twinkling lights
abound. This year the opportunity has been taken once more. Christmas has
arrived and all that remains are the outside lights.
Ah, the outside lights, I’d forgotten them. Tomorrow or the next day, I need to sleep.
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