The Christmas Tree

Wherever I am in the world, and whatever I may be doing, there is one thing that stops me dead in my tracks and drags me to the family home.... the Christmas Tree.

Bertie and the Demon Tree.*

Last year my Mother decorated the tree. Melodrama on par with "so it was you behind the curtain all along!" My Mother decorated the tree, and no matter what you may think about me being lucky to have a mother and so forth, the melodrama is justified because -she just hung stuff anywhere. Yes, that's right, you heard me correctly, hung it anywhere, with no regard to size, shape or colour! That may not sound like the kind of disaster that opens a vortex to some evil dimension peopled with ducks, but- it was not not far off.

Tree decorating is an art. Shiny Christmas whatnot's simply cannot be flung willy-nilly onto branches; to do so is an abuse of the entire idea of Christmas. Hyperbole, I hear you cry, but no - the whole idea of dressing it is surely to produce nothing short of an ascetic delight akin to the Parthenon or the Mona Lisa. Maybe not the Mona Lisa, I've never liked that.

You think I'm taking this too seriously, right? That spending a couple of hours, possibly with a break in between to go out to get more of the right sort of baubles (Christmas 2005), is just shy of madness. Well, you're wrong. Like I said above, tree decorating is an art! I defy disagreement! Last year I spent three days scowling at the wrongly dressed tree before I secretly had to tweak it so it didn't offend my delicate (insane) sensibilities during Christmas dinner.

Where am I going with this? Last night my mother threatened to decorate the tree again, gleefully assigning herself the onerous task due to my convalesance (sounds so much grander than 'due to me lying on the settee, becoming one with a box of tissues'), and though I may be lying on my sickbed, all feverish and exhausted, that sort of fighting talk simply won't do. I may find myself sympathising more and more with a pre-Marley Scrooge each passing year, but I'll be damned if I let the tree go to hell in a handbasket. I know she bought new baubles and lights, and maybe she'd like a chance to decorate her tree by herself, with her trinkets, but no. She can't do a proper job. No one can. Just me. She knows this, I've told her so during many a pre-Christmas row.... and you can guess where this ends.

I've stayed up late and done it (ensuring that it was at least December before I began). Blame the insanity on me being an only child, but take into account that I'm forced to endure Christmas from an egregiously early date by my noel obsessed Mum.

On the plus side, I wasn't able to sleep anyway, and I did feel a bit more sprightly (i.e less snotty) when I began. It looks pretty good too, though the clashing themes of Victoriana (Christmasses 1990-2007) and funky modern woolly cats and such (2008-present) are causing some pain. Alas for the new lights however. My Mother, for reasons unknown, has bought red glowing orbs, which were no doubt designed by some delirious mind to resemble berries. Unfortunately the practical reality is that our tree looks like the devil's tree: full of red glowing eyes, reaching out to snare souls and unwanted Christmas pudding. The dog is both attracted and scared of it. He can't keep away, but whimpers when nearby, which I'm taking as a compliment of the highest order.

Seasons Greetings from an overgrown only child. Pinch, punch, first of the month and all that.

* Picking up a pen and drawing something is my hundred days pledge; in case you're wondering the Hundred Days thing is the brainchild of comedienne Josie Long, who urges us to do something for a hundred days to make ourselves better people. Find out more and pledge for yourself via Hundred Days.Net