All my Christmases are in a metal hat box which bears the name Wedderburn. No one has ever known where it came from, but whether it was begged, borrowed or stolen, none of my ancestors were called Wedderburn or the kind of people to own a hatbox.

In the hot summer move the hatbox wasn't a priority.  The winter was a world away and the tree still a sapling in a forest. 

I know where every one of the decorations come from; the little gold fireplace with two 3D children kneeling by the hearth was from Sasa.  She found me looking at it on her tree when I was 8 and she said if I loved it and looked after it for ever, I could have it.  My cousin sulked as if her birthright had been taken away and I think of her every year I put it up in a kind of 'got you on that one' kind of way..  There are painted salt-dough stars and angels the children messily rolled out on the kitchen table in Lafage, a wreath of fake berries and ivy that I'd picked up on the  heavy North London trudges I took in an attempt to induce Mu's overdue birth.
Silver fish and stars I found in the chateau in Collioure and little slate hearts with hemp string that the children made at school. 

And there they all are, in the metal box which I can't find.

Confetti did the trick.  it came from balloons which looked like condoms.  I cut them open and realised that they were lighter than the past.