The shoebox in the cupboard is stuffed with negatives and reject prints and slides up there, clinging stubbornly to some pretense of credibility about the way things were. Christmas ’65 alleges the sleeve on the dry paper clutching a packet of slides. 5 years before me. Mucking through the ill-focused polaroids, ghosts of Christmases past. Or relatives, removed. Yuletide archeology.
It appears that colours were more vivid back then.
We dressed for the occasion. Ties, Christmas red. Coordinate the family.
And smoked, smoking was OK for Christmas. Underage drinking as well, I’ll wager!
The watching of TV when back when watching TV meant something, when it could be considered a family activity... maybe that’s still okay, I don’t know.
But I do know this – the season is upon us. Brace yourself.
But! The shoebox in the cupboard has been known to exaggerate. Of course, there’s plenty of room for interpretation. You’ve got to admit: the whole ritual is a little suspect.
(the cat, seasonal lunatic, will be hacking up tinsel for weeks…)