Christmas has helped me realise why Newhaven fishwaves were so 'salty', the tree fairy is a vengeful monster and my disco days are over – Susan Morrison

Back when Slade told us it was Christmas for the very first time, we had a tree, and a single string of lights. One set on one tree was considered quite enough.

Whoever untangled the lights on that tree may have used a few 'salty' words if they are anything like Susan (Picture: Ian Georgeson)

The fairy lights were glass. Every year, dad brought them down from the loft. Only a time-served man had the proper authority to handle electrical equipment.

They then had to be carefully untangled and stretched along the living room floor, and rigorous testing applied, using a battery with two wee wires sticking out of it. This gizmo was, again, wielded only by the man of the family, and handled with the respect due to a Geiger counter.

Testing the bulbs was a tense moment. Each little bulb had the wires applied. When it lit, joy was unbridled. Should it remain dark, a replacement was dug out of the box, but, my childhood self worried, what would happen if one day there were no tiny bulbs? Would we cancel Christmas?

The lights, now untangled, tested and approved, were then carefully wound around the tree, which, since my parents were hip young folk of the 60s and ardent believers in the “white heat of technology” was artificial and smelled slightly odd for the first day or two.

The string of lights did their job. They went on. A steady glow of multi-coloured brightness in deep midwinter. One job, well done.

Modern lights don’t need testing any more, but no matter how carefully they were put away in January, untangling is still required. It’s a skill you’d find generations of Newhaven fishwives developed to get nets straight. Fishwives also had a reputation for salty language. Anyone who has spent an afternoon getting fairy lights in a line will probably let fly some savage expletives. I know I do.

There are two sets of lights on my tree, which is real, on account of me rejecting the plastic fantastic revolution. We have a string draped over the mantelpiece, and what I refer to as “the wall of light” in the hallway. There is a wonky circle of light in the kitchen window, framing a window decal of Santa and his sleigh flying above fir trees. I have to describe it, because I bought a transparent one and no-one can see it.

I just want my lights to stay on, with a nice steady glow. But no. They have ‘settings’. They flash. One setting would have people on the floor foaming at the mouth. They do a funky alternative bulb disco strobe that brings back unfortunate memories of 90s’ office Christmas parties. The one where I punched my ex-boss into a huge festive floral arrangement, mainly.

There's a sneaky fade-in/fade out which made me think half my lights were knackered before I even started.

They unexpectedly flicker, turning the living room into the set of a horror film where the baddie is the tree top fairy, come down with long dark hair over her face to take vengeance on us for letting the cat chew her wand off. I stuck it back on, but it was never the same.

Most of my time right now is pressing buttons to cycle through settings to get to the ‘just stay on’ one, using language that a fishwife would probably approve of.

A message from the Editor:

Thank you for reading this article. We're more reliant on your support than ever as the shift in consumer habits brought about by coronavirus impacts our advertisers.

If you haven't already, please consider supporting our trusted, fact-checked journalism by taking out a digital subscription.