27 Dec. 2001 - 2 Jan. 2002
Issue No.566
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 27 Dec. 2001 - 2 Jan. 2002 Issue No.566 |
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Multichasing star light
It is best not to get too cross about the crosses we have to bear, whatever they might be. That way lies stress, and expensive aromatherapy products, and -- should you be inclined towards the more innocuous therapies -- large bills from a reflexologist who is invariably overbooked and able to fit you in at only the most inconvenient of times.
Those niggling little dilemmas that plague most weeks are best treated like the dust we sweep under carpets, pushed firmly out of view and then studiously ignored. Of course there are times when the incompetence of the plumber who came to sort out the leaking pipe that was causing damp patches on your downstairs neighbours' ceiling and ended by replacing the bath tub, pulling up the floor, and sticking you with a bill with rather more noughts on it than seems entirely justified, while at the same time compounding the problem of your neighbours' ceiling, can come to seem a little hard to bear. But even in the face of truculent plumbers keeping calm is by far the best policy. Even in the face of collapsing ceilings, it is best to breath deeply, count to ten, and then start clearing away the rubble. You might even try humming your favourite song. Something from The Sound of Music will probably do the trick.
If your particular weekly bane is the production of a thousand words it is almost inevitable that you will start following a seasonal pattern. One knows when the national day of a particular Gulf state comes round when a leading Egyptian columnist produces his annual diatribe against the hunting of gazelles in the desert: the appeal for eco-friendly tourism appears as regularly as flocks of migrating swallows.
In the case of this column the annual indulgence concerns that most seasonal of objects, the Christmas tree. Contemplating the Christmas tree comes early, with the appearance in front of larger florists of small plantations of conifers, occupying the pavements at the expense of pedestrians. In recent years the usual, non- Christmas tree trees -- they are the sort of shrubs that in England at least are most readily associated with suburban housing estates and patios -- are increasingly punctuated by the appearance, in front of the smartest shops, of real fir trees, imported spruces with price tags of several hundred pounds. These I ignore as studiously as the dust under the carpet.
This year I left it all rather late: it was only on 23 December that my resolution not to have a tree finally collapsed and I found myself in one of these impromptu copses, though sadly depleted, examining the few remaining specimens. Choice made, bargain struck, address given, I returned home to await delivery.
Part of the ritual involves the unpacking of all those decorations so carefully stored only twelve months before. Another part of the ritual is the plugging in of last year's tree lights only to find that they no longer work, and then rushing out at the last minute to buy a new set. Lights, as anyone who has set about decorating a tree in anything approaching a serious frame of mind will tell you, cannot be left until the end. They are the first thing you twist around your suburban conifer, and woe-betide anyone who jumps the gun, and baubles first. Only having rushed out at the last minute, and determined to find something in a local shop, the choice was strictly limited. In fact the only available lights came in virulent pink and green packaging bearing the legend Multichasing Star Light Twinkle, Worldwide Popular Decoration Light. This mouthful was further expanded in smaller type: Star Light Blue Lights Creates a Tranquilising Feeling Under a Sky of Midnight Stars. The Shimmering Spontaneity is Controlled With a Small and Easily Hidden Controller to Regulate its Flashing Speeds and Motions Rhythm.
Should alternatives have existed I suspect I would have been sold. And the fact that these were all blue lights, not the usual ratbag of assorted colours, appealed to my vanity. For, truth be told, I have always aspired towards the tasteful tree, though in more sober moments I have to confess that the tasteful tree is perhaps an aspiration too far. It is, quite possibly, a contradiction in terms, though it remains my late December Holy Grail.
Annually I unpack glass baubles, not shiny, plasticised things. Out of their wrappings come pretty handmade things, and beautifully moulded putti playing harps and stretching their wings. Eyes closed, I think of heavenly hosts, and Corregio ceilings, and the tamer aspects of the Baroque, conscious, of course, that this is all very precious, a terrible conceit, but there you go, old habits die hard, and the only aspirations I've been able to contrive have always proved impossible. Which might possibly be made to say something clever about the nature of ambition, though I'm not sure how.
This is the most painstaking aspect of the process, the hanging of the trinkets. You stand back, critically assessing the balance of the tree, moving things here and there, hoping to find some golden mean, to weave the tree into artful fancy. You tease the branches, seeking to impose some symmetry before, in desperation, convincing yourself that the furious asymmetry of your tree actually denotes a certain character. And when, several hours, and a great deal of frustration later, you stand back to survey your handiwork, the awful truth dawns: you might as well have tipped the box of baubles on the tree from the top of a step ladder, and simply pinned them on where they came to rest. And then there is only one thing for it: go out and buy yards and yards of golden tinsel, shimmering, shiny, utterly gaudy. The tasteful tree can wait till next year.
And the Multichasing Star Light Twinkle? Well, the Tranquilising Feeling Under a Sky of Midnight Stars they purport to produce feels remarkably close to psychosis.
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