In days gone by, Dearest would buy his secretaries, his mother and mother-in-law large cellophane wrapped poinsettia. They always looked spectacular. Briefly. My mother would smile, be effusive, and privately curse. Because she knew that from experience they would not last the duration of the season, and while it had been a generous gift, it was also going to prove burdensome. That particular year, the anticipated Poinsettia-droop appeared two days before Christmas. Long enough for my distraught mother to leap out and buy some artificial Poinsettia bracts and mix them amongst their growing counterparts. It was with huge relief when Dearest commented on how well this year's specimen was doing.
This year they remain, when all else has been retired, to bring a splash of colour to these unremittingly grey days. However, the real poinsettia brought to me at the end of November by a dear friend remains foliage in tact, not so much as a shrivelled leaf to be seen. A veritable Christmas survivor.
Indeed, the only vestige of Christmas left. I un-decked the halls yesterday. Took down cards, dismantled and packed up trees, untinselled my ham bone glasses. Yup. As Dearest reluctantly went off to the office in the afternoon, I beavered away, removing almost every trace of Christmas past.
I did not do this for a reaction. I promise you, I did not. It will, nevertheless come as no surprise that my husband failed to notice the streamlined domestic landscape until finally, after supper, I said,
"Would you like to put the Christmas lights on one last time?"
(I am such a tease.)
"Gosh, you've been busy!" he said, finally taking in the absence of Christmas tree et al.
It was then I decided, that it can only be my permanent, sometimes flickering luminosity that distracts him from either the absence or presence of Christmas paraphernalia.
I am not entirely convinced about this.
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