O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree


When it comes to choosing anything, whether it’s a Christmas tree or a car, a bunch of bananas or a t-shirt, David and I have very different approaches. His is measured, careful, well-researched and thoughtful; mine is ‘I like that one, I’ll have it thank you very much’. We usually buy our Christmas tree together with at least one of the children in tow. It’s a family affair involving much standing around in the cold, holding up every tree, measuring it, looking at each one from all angles, discussing the arrangement of branches. I go along with this but have usually clocked the one I like straight away. This year, David is away and the children aren’t bothered, so I find myself at the tree nursery On My Own, a field full of fallen Nordic firs in front of me. I suss out where the 6-ft trees are (I’m not going to get sweary with a hacksaw this year) and pick one up, spin it around to check it’s ok, then carry it to the nice man with the wrapping machine. He kindly carries it to my car, I hand over the cash and Bob’s Your Uncle. It is now leaning up by the front door until the weekend when we will bring it inside, remove the wrapping and bedeck it with Christmas loveliness. I hope they like it. Watch this space.