I just decorated the Christmas tree. After an hour of intense work I stood back to behold a miserable drooping creature, the vivid and sparkling baubles disappearing into an overpowering mass of disappointing green. Sequinned owls, glittery pine cones, glass spheres, droplets of diamond, gold parcels, and vile red stars from Matalan which I put round the back - all absorbed by its fat pervading branches. What I especially dislike about our 6 foot bush is the way it is wonderfully corpulent at the bottom, but tapers into disheartening sparseness above the halfway mark. Like an anorexic with a beer belly. My mum asked for a 4 foot tree but I decided 6 foot was closer to 4 foot than 4 foot. The excess 2 feet are an ugly branchless peak, like some skeletal finger that I will probably cut off eventually.
The highlight of the Christmas tree process was undoubtedly the net machine. At B&Q a man took our Christmas tree from us, and while we looked on in protective and loving concern, he passed it through some sort of cement mixture with a net at one end. When the Christmas tree came out the other side, it had a net on. It was magical. Elated, we wiped tears of bliss from our eyes and took our tree back into our trolley, stroking its belly. Unsatisfied with a mere pot, we also bought a chavvy gold stand which I detest even more than the tree.