There was a fairy on the top of the tree. She was like no fairy I'd ever seen. Her legs were long and dangly, her face was as round as a full moon. If Mary Quant had fashioned fairies, she'd have made one like her with a tight haircut, heavily made-up eyes and a rosebud mouth. On Christmas morning, that mouth would be smudged with chocolate and we used to laugh because we knew that when we were asleep she had flown down and eaten one of the chocolate Santa Clauses hanging from the tree. She left its foil wrapper dangling from a sparkly thread. Fairy naughty.
I don't know where she is now. She disappeared along with the cheap baubles and other trinkets we would unwrap each year from the decorations box. Sometimes the remains of a bauble would be found smashed into smithereens at the bottom. You wouldn't believe those lovely things had come from such dangerous looking dust.
We got our first proper Christmas tree this year. I bought it after much deliberation on Camden Street, struggled home with it in a taxi, screwed it onto the stand and put it in the corner. I was delighted to find pine needles all over the carpet because they'd told me as a sales ploy it was non-shedding. But you can't have Christmas without moaning about having to hoover up pine needles afterwards. It wouldn't be right.
I thought for ages about our decorating theme. I didn't know whether to go for the minimalist look, white feathers maybe, or go all decadent with pink velvet bows all over the tree like the kind I saw in a magazine. But then suddenly as if by magic the tree was heaving. Candy canes. Crackers. Tinsel. Wooden figurines. Angels. Chocolate decorations. Love heart baubles. Two sets of different coloured lights.
I do feel a bit guilty about the lights. Apparently it's a big decorating faux pas not to use the same colours on your tree. But it was worth it when I turned them on. I know this time of year is supposed to be about children, but we can't be the only adults who lie down in the dark and watch the lights flickering on the Christmas tree. It is too perfect looking. I know I won't want to take it down.
I took a different approach with the hall. A friend gave me a huge bare branch from her garden on which I hung baubles and strung tiny white lights. I put bunches of holly underneath the branch so it looks like it is growing out of a bush. It's the kind of thing you might see in a magazine that features pink velvet bows on Christmas trees. I am ridiculously pleased with myself.
Christmas past. The Borzas from three doors down would come bearing gifts of freshly cooked fish and chips that they hadn't sold before closing time on Christmas Eve. A pillow case at the end of the bed waiting to be filled. Nine of us in paper hats around the table. Nobody allowed to start the present opening ceremony until all the Christmas dinner washing up had been done. Our mother sitting by the tree ready to give out the presents with the youngest like a little elf on the floor beside her. Each present presented individually. To Peter, with love from Róisín. To Michael, Happy Christmas, love Eddie. You had to wait until one present was given and opened before the next one came around. It lasted until around 6 p.m. when there'd be teetering towers of turkey sandwiches and sneaky handfuls of smoked salmon which tasted much better back when it was only an annual event. Then board games and Only Fools and Horses and bedtime coming with the flat feeling that it was all over until next year.
Christmas present. I've finally stopped wanting everything to be the same as it used to be, which is something of a relief, not least for my mother. Our family house, with the front window decorated like something from a fairytale, is gone and now everybody has their own houses and is busy creating traditions that their own children will remember one day. Lobster bisque on Christmas Eve for some of us because none of us live near Borza's any more. Tennis on Christmas morning because one of us lives across the road from a court. The Forty Foot swim for those who are brave enough. Hot toddies on the shore for those of us who are not.
We got our first Christmas tree this year. We borrowed a beautiful fairy with a sparkly red dress and wings from a brother who is off to snowy Canada for Christmas. She is one of those designer fairies who doesn't even have a face, never mind a rosebud mouth in which you'd think butter wouldn't melt. And I must be cured of my Christmas nostalgia because I found I didn't mind that her lack of facial features meant she wouldn't be able to see the chocolate decorations, never mind eat them. I hung a few anyway. You never know when Fairy Quant might come to call.
roisiningle@irish-times.ie