TOO EARLY FOR LIGHTS

I’m sitting in the car on the evening of the first Monday after the clocks go back. 

It’s winter now, I think. You can feel the wind biting, and the flecks of drizzle in the air nestling into your face like snowflakes.

In a few weeks’ time, my neighbours along this street will start putting up their Christmas decorations. The houses here glow at Christmastime, with flashing yellows and neon blues. There are fairy lights swinging from the gutters; there will be bulbous inflatable Santas lit up in cream and orange, and strings of bulbs spiralling around the trees. There are reindeer and parachutes and elves and penguins. It’s an electric paradise of tacky wonder. I really like it.

I know, right. Even last year I might have said otherwise. And in general, I do find outdoor festive decorations ridiculous. I wouldn’t do it myself for all the tea in china in fact, but... I do like driving home to see other people turning their houses into festive runways. I find it weirdly comforting. The feeling is starting to remind me of home. This home.

So much so in fact, that I’m sitting in the street looking at these dark houses now, wishing it was early December.

Is it possible that my brain is already forging memories for me to look back to? I didn’t know that happened at this age. Or is it just that I moved here in a December, and ever since then the houses have only ever looked right for one twelfth of the time? Could be that. Either way, my clever old mind has persuaded me to like something I previously detested.

But I race on. There are no decorations up quite yet. Well, not outside of the department stores and garden centres anyway. And certainly not in this road! It won’t be long though, I’d wager.

I’m kind of looking forward to it.