They were Victorian glass – very old electrical work – beautiful fruit shapes with subtle colours and a damask (?) – by which I mean, dusty, non-sheen – finish. “The fruit lights” were hung in the lower branches of the 12-foot, pungent-smelling, towering tree that stretched up from the hall, encircled by the stairs. I could reach out and touch the prickly needles almost at any level, sitting on the golden ash steps and reaching through the open bannisters.

My other favourites had tiny, intense, coloured lights, which generally placed to the top, up to the angel.

On Christmas Day, lighting the red, wonky tree candles on their silver, scalloped holders and feeling the heat, enjoying the absence of electric light, tasting mince pies and tea, and picking out carols on the piano. Grandparents perching on chairs, and kids distributed on the lower parts of the stairs.

It was always a prickly crawl under the low-hanging branches to reach the on switch in the morning – a tangle of cables from multiple light sets, the tree seeming a bit insecure in its stand, despite tethering, and needles falling off and tangling in my hair and collar. The smell of dust on the varnished reclaimed church floor. “The pink wood”, that was called – Mum and Dad had salvaged it from a demolishing church, and pulled countless nails using the big blue iron nail puller, and sanded and scraped until the pink paint was gone.