Deck The Halls

It was time to put up the Christmas tree in our house this weekend, a time for family fun, laughter and jollity. The reality, though, is that here it’s been a more stress filled time than when I stripped naked, covered myself in chocolate truffles, and ran through a weight watchers convention. Unlike that memorable occasion, as far as the tree goes this year I haven’t got it licked yet.

Here’s the problem. I’m fed up with the real, freshly cut, trees that demand watering each day and then, ungratefully, drop their needles everywhere so they attach themselves to your carpet, curtains, clothes and even feet. I’ve lost count of the number of times in past years that Debbie’s asked me to cut my toe nails only to find I have half a Norwegian Spruce sticking to my bedsheets.

So this year I made an executive decision. No more cheating the environment of oxygen by cutting down a tree that was once used as an emergency toilet on a ski slope in the Alps. No more getting ripped off by someone who sets up for two weeks in our local car park and then is gone when the branches droop like the shoulders of someone who misses out in the January sales. No more watering and sweeping, no more finding needles in the carpet for months after. No more squeezing the thing out of the front door come January only to find the branches pinging back and firing their missiles in my eye.

This year I decided to get an artificial tree. After all, if God had wanted us to have real foliage in our house Robinson Crusoe would have hosted a makeover series, not written a diary.

But, my God, what a drawn out saga it turned out to be. The problem is that our hallway, where the tree stands, is massive with a high ceiling, and we usually get a ten foot high tree. I tried at least fourteen or fifteen web sites and found that all had sold out, apart from those that wanted over five hundred pounds in payment. Surprisingly they seemed full of unsold stock, despite their very generous offer of free postage. I don’t want a decoration that’s worth more than my house thank you.

Eventually I found a twelve foot high tree in B&Q, paid two hundred and fifty hard earned pounds, lugged it to the car and got it home. Excitedly I unpacked the boxes and started putting it together, taking about an hour to fluff out the branches. I was so proud and it looked magnificent - and then the boss returned home! Debbie decided with one look that it was too big and demanded it was taken down and returned. So I spent Sunday dismantling the scaffolding and packing away the bits of plastic, then trying to squeeze them all back in the boxes. Like all things at Christmas, it seemed to have put on a lot of weight.

And now we’re back to square one.

We have a ten foot high natural tree, bought from the usual dodgy geezer down the road, that demands water like a thirsty liquid fetishist in the desert, and we also have our usual free gift of a new carpet of pine needles all over the hallway. As is usual at Christmas, Debbie’s started asking me to cut my toe nails again, and I’ve booked my appointment with the optometrist for my eye check up in January when I’ll fight to get the dead wood out of our front door and in to the caring hands of the binmen.

Know what? It feels like a traditional Christmas. But next year, to save disappointment, I’m ordering a proper sized fake tree in July.

You'd Better Watch Out

I can feel the panic rise up in me as Christmas approaches and I get left behind with no shopping done, no cards bought and not even an inkling of an idea on what presents to get for anyone. I am to Christmas organisation what Tiger Woods is to domesticity.

As the festive season approaches imperiously like Tiger’s wife with a three iron, I felt I really had to get a move on this week and so I sourced our tree and put it up at the weekend. Notice I said “sourced” rather than “bought”. I realise that most people do simply buy a tree, but I have to study the form card, check prices, needle drop, whether it’s potted or not and whether they pick up the carcass after Christmas. I really should get a hobby.

This year the tradition of newspapers panicking us over the festive tree has been followed to the letter because, year after every blinkin’ year, they tell us there will be a shortage due to adverse weather/ blight/pests/pesticides/swine flu/the millennium bug/ or famous golfers driving in to them - and this year is no exception. I believe there is a press officer who each year releases a story to keep prices inflated on behalf of the Nordic Arctic Fir Federation. This NAFF Press Release lands on editors’ desks each year as sure as cigarette ash and Katie Price's bottom.

The tradition in our house is that we share the load. I find the tree, pay for it, carry it to the car on my own and lift it in, drive it home, unload it, put it up, get all the tinsel and baubles down from the loft, decorate it and then the kids tell their friends to come see the tree they put up and decorated. That’s called sharing in our house. This year they did help a bit and the three of us worked away listening to Christmas carols, full of the Christmas spirit, exchanging greetings like “watch out you’ll pull it over” at the top of our voices while Silent Night played in the background.

This year’s tree is nine feet tall and came wrapped in a hairnet that took twenty minutes plus two Stanley knives to cut through. When released from its bondage the branches sprung out like an opera diva released from a corset, sending bits flying everywhere and blinding people five miles away. With the Christmas albums playing in the background and mince pies warming in the oven, I made the mistake of decorating the tree barefoot meaning as each bauble fell off and smashed on the floor my feet had more slashes than a Guns ‘n’ Roses lookalike convention. The soles of my feet resembled Gordon Ramsay before the Botox.

Next, out come the decorations for the rest of the house, made up mainly of figures the girls have made at school over the years out of pottery or empty toilet rolls. The pottery figurines of three wise men are so oddly shaped they look curiously arty, and one day I’m sure we’ll con some art critic in to paying fortunes for them. The angel is made from a toilet roll with a ping pong ball on the top and some macaroni for hair, and pasta shells for hands. It’s ten years old now and has become a family heirloom we’ll never part with, though we may eat it one day.

So, the Coia household is waiting for Santa now. All I have to do is make a list, buy the presents, wrap them, get some chocolate food in, buy the Christmas cards and stamps, address them, post them, and put the lights up in the garden. If Santa could just put off his visit till, say March, I might be actually ready.