I didn’t take a lot of pictures at all, during our Christmasness this year. I think it’s partly because I am getting better at being in the moment; and I feel that sometimes, in my desire to capture something, I actually miss out on it.
The splendid gingerbread house that my nieces decorated, with my splendid nieces.
My precious goddaughters playing with their newly-acquired dollshouse, which belonged to Joy once.
The only picture I took on The Day was this one,
of the Christmas stockings that Joy and I made, for our family Secret Santa.
And that was it.
It’s not that Christmas wasn’t memorable: it was, in its wonderful peace and harmony, one of the best I can recall.
But photographs wouldn’t have done justice to the best bits: my parents giggling helplessly at Morcombe and Wise on Christmas Eve, the sight of my tall handsome son filling the doorway as he arrived for a scant 60 hours of Christmas break, Alan and I feeling in such happy harmony, and even better, knowing that that happy harmony was little to do with it being Christmas. Scarlet and Joy and me all itching to interfere as Evie and Cecily set about creating their doll-house world. My godson realising the shoes I had given him were actually the Heelys he’d asked for. The loveliness of something that looks like a belated Christmas Day tea from the outside, but is actually a tradition started by two friends who met on their first day at college and somehow are now both in their 40s with families.
Although now that I’ve written about all of these things, I wish I’d taken more photos….