It was something of a surreal experience walking home recently. In the dark, misty air, the streets that I know so well take on a new aspect. A thick fog had descended, one of those bitterly cold winter mists that occur at nightfall. With Christmas coming, lights of all colours decorate the houses. In the icy fog, their colours seem to glow and hang in the air, caught on the icy droplets. Out of the gloom, a shining, scarlet tree suddenly appears or an electric blue row of fairy lights running along a gable end. And of course, the row of amber street lamps guide me home.
Blue seemed to have been the colour of choice last year but, after the novelty of seeing so much of the hue had passed, I thought it a curiously unseasonal colour. It gives off a cold, dull glow doing little to pierce the gloom of a winter fog. I prefer the fiercer, bolder red light, scarlet being the colour of passion, love, and is a common sight on hedgerows in autumn suggesting fecundity and flavour. For the same seasonal reason, I appreciate the sight of green or gold. Whilst, I appreciate the lights, I am less keen on the gaudy 'displays'; those occasionally animated scenes of Santa waving or climbing a chimney. Knowing when to stop and that 'less is more' seems to me a measure of good taste and a potential strain on neighbourly relations.
The disconnect from reality that I felt walking home was intensified by my being hunkered deep down in a (fake) fur-lined hood, with a scarf wrapped around my face like a bandit. My eyes, the only exposed part of my body, peep out and are smarted by the cold night air as they view the unfamiliar scene. I am a flaneur for all seasons.
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