At around this time of year Caroline and I always have the same argument. I’m not talking about who’s going to be ‘tree elf’ on Christmas Day — a humiliation that involves picking up all the discarded paper after Caroline’s four siblings and their children have unwrapped all their presents. I’ve been ‘tree elf’ for the past five years and I’m resigned to wearing the silly green hat well into my nineties.
No, the argument is about what Christmas decorations to display on the outside of our house. According to her, only two things are acceptable: white fairy lights draped over some greenery and an all-natural wreath hung on the front door. Anything more showy is beyond the pale.
My sensibilities aren’t quite so refined. I’d like to rig up a fibre optic frieze depicting Santa in a reindeer-driven sleigh with the words ‘Ho Ho Ho’ emblazoned above his head. Ideally, the words would light up one at a time, creating a dazzling series of flashes. No epileptic within a five-mile radius would be safe.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Caroline when I sketched this out. ‘Why not just stick up a giant neon sign saying “Chav”?’
I generally defer to Caroline on matters of taste, but I do think she’s being a little uptight about this. Surely Christmas is a time when it’s OK to engage in ostentatious displays of bad taste? The festival is so inherently kitsch, the idea of celebrating it in a dignified, understated way is a bit self-defeating — like going to Vegas and staying in the Four Seasons. My idea of a good Christmas is to go hog wild and unleash my inner Vicky Pollard.
Having four children helps. In the battle between genteel restraint and Falstaffian exuberance, they’re firmly on the side of Daddy Pig.
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