Our Lady of the Plastic Christmas Tree looks serenely at all the little polystyrene birds who have come, drawn by her tinsel and glitter and opportunities for snaring huge caterpillars and miniature dinosaurs. She even has a halo, though its not at all clear, five wire loops of iridescently pale stars, dating from an earlier, whiter christmas. And oh look, there's my ceiling. The eternal woodchip of my fevered dreams of childhood fades into the twisted artex shapes of my sullen teenaged insomnia. Like many insomniacs, I hate my ceiling.