It’s time for the climb

Dear Mum,

What a dreary weekend. No offence is meant –taking down the Christmas decorations is just a bleak affair. This is not how I would chose to spend my first weekend of the New Year.

But the 6^th had passed and duty called thus I came to yours and Dad’s rescue to assist with the undecking of Halls and subsequent winter clean.

It has transpired that, with Dad working and Kate having flown the nest, you and I have been the most practiced in retrieving the Christmas decorations from their storage space and, a month later, putting the same decorations to rest. Lucky us, eh?

Saturday’s Christmas undressing began with the fetching of The Ladder. I dread this contraption because, in fact, it cannot simply be ‘fetched’ but instead heaved, wrestled and restrained. This monstrosity is, as you well know, huge, heavy and not designed for the use of two 5”2” females.

Thus, when you say the words “I think it’s time to get the ladder”, I scamper away to hide in the toilet with fake female aches.

But my moral compass always directs me back to you as I know The Ladder cannot be managed with one mere set of hands. After battling with the apparatus and positioning it underneath the mini loft in the utility room, we then begin the climb.

This involves me holding the ladder as you ascend the first three steps. When there is enough space between my face and your rear to make me feel more comfortable I then stand on the bottom step, offering some anchorage to The Ladder.

Every year, it is guaranteed that at this point The Ladder will toy with your emotions by rocking, causing you to nervously ask, “Can you hold the ladder steady by standing on the bottom step please?”

I assure you that I’m already on it. This offers no assurance, instead provoking you to ask, “You’re on it?!! Have you lost more weight?” which is followed by a discussion, still on The Ladder, about my eating habits and you insisting I eat something after we have finished putting the decorations away. I agree to this.

You reach the top point, a thin pole running from one side of The Ladder to the other. You take a large breath and quickly push yourself from it, wedging one foot against the side of the hatch and propelling yourself into the loft.

This is followed by THUMP and “OUCH!” I peer up at you from the bottom step to see you grimacing and clutching your head.  

And so it begins. You lower Pickfords boxes which are falling to shreds, a varied assortment of strong House of Fraser bags and bin liners, Fortnum and Mason hampers, old faded hat boxes and baskets, all smelling of damp and cinnamon candles, waiting to once more receive their Christmas contents.

Everything is ferreted away, lovingly wrapped in torn and yellowing tissue. Negotiations ensue as to what goes where before being stacked into boxes. You orchestrate the affair, each year replacing dilapidated boxes with new crisp ones and leaving yourself notes inside for next year’s successful Christmas feng shui.

You say the dreaded words “I think it’s time to put it all back in the loft. To The Ladder!” I scamper away to hide in the toilet with fake female aches. But my moral compass directs me back to you, knowing you once more require my anchorage.

And so you mount, reach halfway, I mount, The Ladder rocks, we discuss my weight, you propel, THUMP and “OUCH!”

Ready to go, I start handing you boxes, bags and baskets, giving you a quick briefing of their weight. I can hear you crawling about above me, pushing items aside and rearranging for maximum storage space.

We keep one another company by discussing how much we hate this tradition and compare gained injuries from this exercise.

“Ow! My shins are battered, Mum! Christ!”

“Don’t swear, darling. Besides, you should feel this lump on my head, it’s sodding huge!”

We agree the worst bit is the Christmas tree. Hated because it is heavy, awkward to hold and scratchy. It is at this point that, every year, we agree we should get a real one next year and relish the thought of having it sent to the chipper rather than battling to fit it through the hatch.

Suddenly, our rants are accompanied by ‘O, Come All Ye Faithful.” There is a resulting pause in our conversation. Mystified, I secretly wonder whether a heavenly host is descending upon us to scold me for taking the Lord’s name in vain, just two weeks after his birthday.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” I hear your muffled cry, “It’s a musical decoration in one of the bottom boxes! Oh, leave it for now, let’s get the rest up.”

And so I continue passing stuff up, to me to you, to me to you, serenaded by the Christmas carol on a continuous and tedious loop.

“It’s all up, Mum.” I say, sitting down, defeated, on the bottom step.

“Right. I’m going to find and stop the music.” There are shuffles and thumps. The music suddenly grows a bit louder, obviously having been unearthed. Apart from the music, all is silent as you clearly try to identify the off switch.

Then, out of nowhere, WHACK WHACK WHACK! The music abruptly stops.

“There, that’s done” you say, your facing popping from the hatch, looking down at me on the bottom step. “Can you hold the ladder steady, please?”

And so you tentatively descend with me waiting on the bottom step. As your bottom inches closer to my face, I trust it is ok for me to leave the last step.

We emerge from the utility room. Covered in dust and renegade shreds of tinsel, you pick the fake pine needles from my hair and make me feel the lump on your head.

We both head for the Nurofen. Dad appears, tangled in a tumbleweed of Christmas lights, random bulbs resting in his open palms.

“Time for a glass of cider?”