Monday 13th December (12 sodding sleeps ’til Christmas)

Am feeling horrendously smug.

This weekend I led a successful expedition out into the deepest darkest countryside to bag myself a Christmas tree.

My intention was to shop around for the tree that ‘spoke’ to me. I grandiously informed the kids that we were off in search of ‘our’ tree. The perfect tree, the tree whose very presence would be suffient to swaddle us in Christmas cheer for the foreseeable future.

In the event that we were unable to track down the tree that, since a seedling in its Norwegian homeland, had been destined for our sitting room; I had visions of trudging through a snowy, Narnian-esque forest, dodging frolicking fauns and friendly badgers, to stumble upon the object of our desire, which would naturally be glowing with the peace of all mankind. Snow would surely begin to fall and the gentle strumming of distant harps would accompany our merry journey back to the car.

What actually happened is that about two and a half miles down the A5, with Elton John screaming at us to ‘Step into Christmas’, Annabelle screeching along in accompaniment behind me and the Teenager shouting over both of them to ‘SHUDDUP’ and ‘stop kicking my bloody chair’, I saw a sign for Christmas trees and a 1984 Ford Transit in a lay-by.

Job done.

Now, whilst it must be said that the tree is more of an advertisement for recycling stuff from last year than a bushy, healthy cultural reminder of the significance of 25th December, now that Annabelle has finished with it, it would take a very close examination to ascertain that anything organic, that didn’t arrive in this country on a container ship from China, is even lurking there.

The smug part came late on Sunday afternoon when I was walking home alone having unsuccessfully attempted to track the dog down after our ‘quick walk’ round the church and I noticed that several houses belonging to registered, card-carrying members of the yummy-brigade were, as yet, undecorated.

I LOL-ed all the way home.