To me, Christmas is about children. Nothing else matters. Now that we have Finn, Christmas is blessed with magic we had forgotten and every little detail counts because when there are children around you never know what is going to fire their imagination. Take the tree. Apart from being obsessed with mobile phones and TV remote controls, (which probably says too much about my fun filled days!)Finley likes balls. To him, baubles are lovely, sparkly, glittery balls, just waiting to be kicked as far as his chubby little legs will let him. (The Wayne Rooney gene comes from his Dad). Never mind the fact that my gorgeous collection of baubles are both hand painted and old: baubles are twinkly balls and that’s the end of the matter. Thus, our titchy little tree is stranded on top of the cabinet, a fuzzy pom pom of a Norway Spruce, decorated with flowers and peacock feathers and in a part of our living room we can neither see, nor enjoy late at night when Christmas trees are at their sparkliest best. It was either that or find Finley flattened by it, in an effort to select the bounciest bauble of all.
And after all the trouble I went to, to make the house as twinkly and tasteful as possible, the only Christmassy thing Finley really likes, is a ludicrously ugly Father Christmas wearing sunglasses and a bandanna that sings "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" which has him creased laughing and jigging about like its the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.
Which is, I suppose the magic of Christmas.
Who cares if the child has got bad taste and can’t appreciate the subtlety of vintage ornaments…