This year we decided not to swamp our house with masses of Christmas decorations. Just a garland on the mantlepiece and a magnificent tree. Simples (as the meerkat would say). There are several farmers in our locality who will let you choose your tree from the selection growing in their fields, manfully chainsaw it at the base of the trunk, or dig up the entire rootball so you can replant it in your own garden once the festivities are over.There is even a website listing places where you can pick your own treeso it really isn’t any bother.
Or, if you are my Husband, you can drive down to the local gypsy camp and pay over the odds for a really useless one. Our nearest ‘traveller site’ (the occupants of which have apparently forgotten their proud Romany heritage of moving from place to place and are all permanent residents) is a place where we (and the council, police, health & safety executives) rarely venture. But every November they erect large signs offering ‘trees and reaths’ (sic) which apart from enticing you to buy their products, infer permission to enter their site without having your hubcabs nicked. So Husband (who, by the way, usually advocates “buy quality, you’ll be glad you did”) returns to the homestead with a large tree. The branches are so droopy that the baubles keep sliding off the ends and shatter as they greet the floor. Every time the labrador passes, his tail swishing enthusiastically, thousands more needles cascade downwards. We have watered this ungrateful tree three times a week to no avail. Now, when we need it to do its stuff and look fabulous, it stands there looking absolutely sullen and pathetic. It’s rather like having an unwelcome visitor who has come to stay. Mind you, suppose that’s par for the course for Christmas!