Christmas makes people do strange things, often related to lights.
They're everywhere. Especially around areas like the south of Nottingham, where I spent my university years, and in the northern suburbs of London, where - of course - I am now. Lights of the most gaudy varieties covering the front of houses, trees both outside and in decorated with twinkling LEDs merrily wasting electricity for our visual delight. I've even seen some people decorate their bedrooms with fairy lights, some of which are on permanently. And I thought I was the one without any sleep.
Robinson was driving us to the leisure centre last night (it was a good idea to go swimming; alas, they had closed at 6:30pm and it was coming on to 8, so maybe not such a good idea after all), taking us down a road which, it seems, had lent itself to the most tasteless Christmas decorations inside the M25 (in our house we have restricted ourselves to one tree with tinsel and baubles - which is quite enough, I find). Lights, flashing incessantly, everywhere, and in the worst of cases, little inflatable or glowing Father Christmases hanging perpetually in suspended animation.
Well, not quite the worst of cases.
There was, in one case, a girl's bedroom on the first floor of one of the houses. And spraypainted onto the window of the room, distinctly and without any further indication of continuation of the Christmas phrase, was the single word:
...At least, I hope it was part of the phrase. Unless it's either a jealous ex-lover or a girl who is in/secure enough to brand herself.
But let's not dwell on that too much... right?