Yes, comfort and joy is nice. But there are some seasonal trappings I am glad to see the back of
Twelfth night, and the following day’s Epiphany, is a time of ancient traditions: the adrenalised juggling of overdrafts, a ritual squabble with my best friend about whether frangipane, star of French Epiphany cakes, is tasty or terrible, and the dreary stripping away of any remaining Christmassy bits. Time to take down our favourites: the entirely featureless loo roll tube (a relic of some abortive “craft” project), the blue papier-mache lightbulb, origins unknown, the pink plastic owl that sees into your soul, and the inexplicable army of ornamental Scottie dogs, none of them bought by me. My husband will carefully wrap the tangled fairy lights around the ancestral copy of Super Picsou Géant (a French comic about Scrooge McDuck), as he has since time immemorial, and that will be that, fun over.
There is, though, something invigorating about it. Sure, comfort and joy is nice, my inner zealot whispers, hairshirt rustling, smelling of bicarb and white vinegar, but have you seen this nice new broom? There are some seasonal things I am looking forward to putting away along with the decorations, and not all of them will be allowed out of the loft next year.
Emma Beddington is a freelance writer. Adrian Chiles is on holiday.
