My angel lurches drunkenly. We have placed her near the top, as befits
angels, and she perches uncertainly at an angle, overshadowing the star and the
miniature wooden stable placed strategically beneath it. Maybe the star is
shining in the east; I'm not sure of the geography here. I think actually it
may be to the west as it seems to point towards the coast. Never mind. In
any case, the angel is bending near the earth. She seems to have mislaid her
golden harp, but her anti-war slogans seem as much needed as ever.
I have invented a new Christmas blessing. The Jews, it seems, have a
blessing for every eventuality and despite not being Jewish myself, despite
this being the season of Christmas, not Hanukkah, the festival has its ancient
origins in Judaism and there should therefore be a proper blessing for it. 'May
all your branches rise upward' seems this year to be a suitable one. Scouring
the shops and garden centres for a tree in mid-December, we were disappointed
to find nothing that matched the romantic dream. Trudging around in the rain -
nothing deep, crisp or even in sight - we discovered Christmas had been
modernised once again. The fragrant Norway Spruce was nowhere to be seen.
Coming downstairs in the morning to be greeted by the heady and nostalgic aroma
of pine resin was a non-negotiable part of the recipe for that perfect
Christmas we all seek, so regretfully we got back in the car and moved on,
hoping that maybe the next makeshift sign on a piece of old board would point
the way to the right sort of 'Xmas trees'. Finally we went full circle and
ended as we had begun in a small florist's shop whose trees we had already
rejected. They were small, misshapen and spindly, but cheap. If we couldn't
have what we wanted, and clearly we could not, we were at least going to score
on price. Even the woman in the shop warned us:
"They're rubbish Christmas trees" she said. "But an old
man who grows them himself brings them in every year and I haven't the heart to
tell him. Everyone wants the perfect tree nowadays, but you can have this one
for a tenner if you want."
A tenner sounded good and anyway, we didn't believe her. No-one really
means that the stuff they're selling is rubbish. Do they?
It was. There is nothing more depressing than a drooping fir tree, hence
the blessing. Once decorated, ours stood in the corner and wept. We selected
our lightest, most delicate baubels and tried to push them as far as we could
up the branches, but nothing could disguise the droopiness, as our poor little
tree hung its head in shame. 'May all your branches rise upward!'
I wonder why I think of angels as 'she'. Biblical angels come with names
like Gabriel and Michael, never Barbara or Jane. Maybe the Christmas angel has
become tangled in my subconscious with that imposter, the pagan Christmas fairy
who dares to adorn many trees. All through my childhood she was an annual
visitor to the topmost branch of our tree, decked out in a frothy white dress
and a tinsel headdress and waving a tiny magic wand in case Santa failed to do
the business. To be honest, in those days her magic seemed to have more success
than the ministrations of our more authentic and Biblical angel. Certainly, the
magic of the tree was lacking this year, but then perhaps we treated our angel
badly, without proper respect. Everyone knows that angels are not 'she', do not wear frocks and,
because of their awesome nature, do their best to calm our nerves by always
announcing their arrival with those immortal words: 'Fear not!'
One further point - just to clear up any misunderstanding and pave the
way for a better Christmas next year - my angel, despite appearances, is not drunk.
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