So that was Christmas. It'll soon be time to go back in the box. Mum, Dad, me - we get stuffed into an old Crock box with, I dunno, about 20 others. It's a nice box and she thinks we stay there 350 odd days of the year, yeah well...
She thinks she made most of us, put together from wool and felt, bits and bobs, stuff you can see and touch, but like most good ideas we don't confine ourselves to the expected; or even the good.
We come out every year to watch over the end and the beginning; we come on the darkest day with a green tree that slowly dies in a blaze of spectacular glory. We watch the lights and fire that encourage a new year into existence and we wait quietly to be packed away - hoping somehow we made a difference.
But are we merely echoes of children's fairy tales? Do we represent anything other than fading, whispy memories of a time before science ruled the world?
We're in evidence, visible, for this annual window into goodness and hope, a window that seems to be shrinking, closing in fear and cynicism as the world of people grows more complex, more unfathomable with each stride of progress, each intervention born out of curiosity and the desire for complete control.
Are the values we represent still meaningful? Is it still possible to cherish things not comprehended? Things that cannot be dissected, analysed, improved, or made a profit from?
Are Nisser merely inanimate, sentimental relics, or do we carry any kind of hope for the future?
Perhaps this time she'll take a good look at what exactly she's packing away for the best part of the year; Mum, Dad and me, we just want to bring a little balance: a sense of fun and a little bit of mischief to the world of Homo Sapiens Obduratus.
Maybe this year she'll notice that the Crock box is actually empty most of time...