Last year, for the first time in decades, we decorated our property for Christmas. We strung swags of white bulbs along the fence between our house and the “doggy park” next door, with fan-like clusters of blue and green lights in each loop. We dotted little neon trees among the spiky desert plants of our xeriscaped front yard. We hung a big wreath of aluminium-foil holly leaves on our front door. It seemed to us a good time to embrace that “thrill of hope” (to quote the old hymn), at which “the weary world rejoices”. We enjoyed the cheer of neighbours’ houses, whose eaves now dripped LED “icicles” and whose ornamental cacti were draped in twinkling lights. We were so pleased we bought enough lights and neon trees to double the display next year.
Well, now it’s next year. All the lights and trees,
