We are awakened from the long sleep by the creak of the hatch door and then the box vibrates with excitement. It’s the bloody robin who gets ridiculously frantic. You see he’s territorial and thinks it’s his cue to guard the space from the invasion of another robin! He’s three years old now so you’d think he’d know the drill. Anyway I just remain elegantly supine until the lid is removed. There is always a tedious wait because the man has to wrestle the tree into something approaching the vertical. Then the woman crawls underneath it, attempting to artfully drape some kind of glittery skirt over the old bucket. Back comes the man with the lights, all under the sherry-sodden supervision of the woman. And at last, it’s my turn. She gently lifts me from the box, straightens my skirt and hair and hands me to the man who reaches up to hoist me onto the top of the tree. There is no consideration of how those needles prickle my legs and prod my bottom! But do I complain? I do not. When the switch is flicked and the lights twinkle, I am a vision of dignity and loveliness. It is quite a moment.
But little do they know that inside I am fuming. Because the prickles are only the beginning of what I have to contend with for the next fortnight. It is the same every year. Just below me, on one of the highest branches they place the bloody snowman! Their son made him when he was small so sentimentality dictates that he should have pride of place each year, thus he is dangled at my feet. You would think that after all this time he would have moved on but no. He spends the two weeks in a state of simpering adoration. So I have to tolerate two big black buttons mooning up at me. I’ve tried using my wand to prod the tinsel over him but so far it hasn’t worked. Blithering fool.
He isn’t the worst of it however. I know that somewhere on the tree they will place the soldier. He looks smart, stands to attention and carries a military drum. If I went purely on looks I might have felt he was worthy of a nod of approval. But this is a soldier who is yet to hear of the ‘Me too’ movement. I cannot count the number of times he has remarked on my bloomers. He calls me his ‘foxy filly’ and says that he is going to climb up the tree and show me a good time! His legs are fused, maybe he was injured in action. Either way, my legs are free and I would kick him in the head if he came anywhere near.
So as you can see, it is not all sweetness and light being the Christmas Fairy. I need the fifty weeks of sleep to find the energy to fix my serenity for the festive season.
PS. There are two daft leprechauns who dance and prance throughout the Yuletide, festooning themselves in the tinsel, mincing from branch to branch and taunting the snowman and the soldier with branches of mistletoe. Fabulous. A right pair of Christmas fairies if ever you saw them!
Image: With thanks to http://www.papertiger.co.uk.