"Lights, lights, get us some lights...".

Are you all lit up? Too soon?  I'm lit up inside. I'm not talking about the rosy glow of smugness that you can see in the dark. I mean my Christmas trees are decked and twinkling. And why not? Don't we need a bit of artificial sparkle to lighten the gloom. You will agree, I'm sure, that it's all looking a bit grim in all sorts of directions. So if mindful drinking no longer delivers alcoholic anaesthesia to all things awful, then, at least, let us festoon the place with fairy lights and bathe ourselves in glitter. I would, however, possibly prefer a gin. And the fairy lights. Don't see why they should be mutually exclusive.

(Of Life and lemons)

We don't put lights outside our house. We tried once. Paid a man to go up a long ladder to hang lights from the branches of our now late and lamented Wisteria. I thought it would look charming. For three nights they flashed like Tesco's. I felt like I should set up a stall in front of the house. It was such a relief when the lights fused on day three. It has put me right off. And yet I see houses around me with tasteful lights entwined around creepers or scattered over bushes. Our neighbours opposite have, this year, gone for the icicles. First night they were delightful. Just right. Last night, however, the sequence was changed and their icicles aggressively beat out  a coruscating assault on our senses.

"Looks a little like Tesco's," I thought, as I lit my modest candles in the window.


Post script:
Since writing this, the lights across the road have been put on static. Spooky or what? Much much better. More Waitrose.  I'm such a snob.