My husband is away for the week, in Texas, doing ‘business’. Maybe he’s with JR as we speak (or am I in the wrong decade again?)
An enormous Christmas tree is keeping me company, filling our living room with the friendly scent of pine. My imagination is running wild, unfettered by male rationality.
‘We can have a Christmas grotto in the conservatory!’ I say to my daughter ‘we can get some fake snow and spray it on the windows! And spray some twigs with silver spray and make it all sparkly!’
She gets excited, then remembers she’s nearly a teenager.
‘It’ll be an epic fail, though, Mum. I think we all know you’re not very artistic.’
Well, there is that. I have to admit, I am not artistic. My home does not show impeccable taste, or even any demonstrable attempts at a decorating scheme, other than wallpapering the rooms with books; but I do like a bit of glitter and sparkle at Christmas.
‘You’re very good at art, though,’ I tell her. I have no evidence for this but it’s all about confidence, surely?
I have a vision in my mind of how I would like the house to look by the time my husband comes home. Experience tells me that the vision is unlikely to come true, but I am hoping that we are going to have fun trying to realise it.