I live in a funny neighborhood—a wide, old-fashioned street with sidewalks and a mix of former mill houses and big old two-story houses at varying distances.  Hispanics, elderly, young families, African-Americans, Polish and Hungarian, Caucasian, and more.  They all seem to have cats, which glide through the neighborhood scowling at one another.

I like it very much. 

But Christmas brings out the worst in tawdry decorations.  One house looks like a nightclub, with dark red lights.  Another is a disco.  But the worst is the front yard and porch of a large two-story house.  It has monstrous old-fashioned lighted bulbs planted throughout the yard, along with giant lighted candy canes stuck in the dirt.  The front is draped with lights.  Different lights strewn through the bushes.  None of the lights’ colors match.  There is a moving large Santa Claus on the porch.  One can barely walk through the yard, so stuffed is it with decorations. 

It is a hideous blot upon the street, a spectacle of Christmas horrors.

Other than the tradition of watching this orgy sprout up on the street, I also like the very tall and perfectly shaped outside conifer that is faithfully given a lovely simple classic strand of lights—a lone haven of peace, order, and sophistication that I watch for.

This morning, in another exercise in excess I was at the gym and decided to push it a little—add some extra and press on through. 

I pulled a muscle in a sadly inappropriate area of the body, and now find it challenging to stand from a sitting position.

But the best thing about this week was that I have acquired from the library two Sansom novels, and the new annotated Sherlock Holmes, whose adventures I’ve read many times before.

An orgy of great reading, which causes me to say, earlier than usual . . . “Goodnight all.”