Call it the escapist magic of the season but for as long as I can remember, the Christmas tree in our house has seemed like some sort of other dimension in which characterful little souls live in amongst dark green branches lit by fairly lights; after all, where else can you witness a panda in earnest conversation with a snowman, a perturbed-looking fairy in white turned away from a jolly-looking Santa with a look that suggests he’s said something to offend her, her alter-ego in full burlesque garb stifling a yawn in the company of the sun and the moon, a man in a star-costume stage diving into the branches or a frog in evening dress striding out with his lion friend as though off to a festive party.  In fact the entire scene taking place on our tree, this year, resembles one of those Christmas parties that throw all sorts of very, very different people together in the expectation that they will make polite conversation and find something in common to talk about.

As a child, I would always sit at the end of the sofa that was overhung by tree-branches and, far more than watching what our black and white television had to offer, would stare transfixed into the tree-scene to my side, imagining a world that existed in its branches. Probably that’s why, as an adult, I’ve always picked “characters” for my own tree and, with each passing year, and as more and more decorations get added to the family collection, ours increasingly tells a sort of narrative of the little folk that occupy its green and sparkly other-world…

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