In the precinct – not a tree, but a simulation of a tree. A geometric shape in plastic. A prefab structure with built in baubles. Tall, pretty in its way, but by definition lifeless and sterile. None of the tension of a real dying live tree, no reflection of the mid Winter dramas of light in the darkness, evergreen boughs, blood berries and spiky leaves. And no aroma; no fresh gusts of pine leaf and sap to quiver the nostrils and refresh the mind.

When the school that I worked in for many years fell seriously foul of OFSTED and we were forcibly academised – which tipped a difficult situation into one that became almost irretrievable – on the first Christmas after the takeover, I walked into the reception area between the Scylla of the Head’s Office and the Charybdis of the Office office, and there, standing in the corner, was a silver, plastic tree (with attached baubles). Frank the Premises Manager had just put it up and was appraising it with his head on one side. Under the old regime we had had TWO real trees. Big ones. One in the reception, one in the Middle Hall, where most Assemblies took place. These were lovingly decorated with great craft and skill by the TAs and the whole school was treated to great wafts of aromatherapy for the whole of December. This was not a box being ticked. There was a heart to it. I looked at the plastic replica of a tree, looked at Frank. We both looked back at it, then at each other. We had the same expression. “Sums it up in a way, doesn’t it?” “Yeah, it does”.

Customers are fairly sparse. The independent cafe in the centre is closed, but the Costa on the corner facing onto the High Street is full of people drinking vast bowls of coffee at the bladder bursting end of the spectrum.

Meanwhile, at the War Memorial, an equal opportunities Remembrance Parade, in crochet, lines up on the bollards.