Normally there is strict observance of the house rule that the tree does not go up until the weekend before Christmas. Now I realise that may well have been a mistake. We reached the point, with the cold and all, where something bright was needed to cheer us up over and above a glass of pudding sherry, so here is the driftwood tree, lights, three felt robins, a perplexed cat wondering what I am doing outside the house looking in, and a more cheerful household.
|Driftwood and drift plastic junk|
The trip a few weeks ago to find exactly the right planks of wood for the tree, including a triangular piece for the top was made on a clear afternoon, timed so that the tide was far enough out to allow us to mooch about on the shore. As you may have gathered, we are partial to a bit of driftwood. Quite often it ends up just propped against the wall because it is too interesting, too tactile, too full of the past and possibilities.
I like the idea that our tree has been resurrected from the river. It's quite a fragile construction - one careless move and the whole lot could come tumbling down. It only has to hold on until the New Year, after which, well, it depends on how cold it is.