The Christmas Tree dictatorhip

Two weekends away from Christmas, and the red, green and white spirit has reached its peak. Trully attached to my German roots, I have now hung crowns and straw hearts all around the house whilst red candles ligthen up the mood.

So, one thing was clearly missing to achieve the perfect Christmassy feel : a Christmas tree, un sapin de Noël.

Ah, well easy, no ? was I thinking with a hint of Parisan "arrogance". So there I was, announcing to every human being I came accross last week : "I, am buying my Chrismas tree this weekend", very proud of being able to decorate the sacred wooden icon by myself for the very first time, i.e. not my parent's or grandparents.

Piece of cake then. Well, it took a few attempts.

Steve was driving to Sainsburys yesterday for the we-are-having-guests-this-evening-honey-don't-forget-the wine. I thought I may as well use his male strength to carry the bloody damn tree back home. After all, it's just one of the many pine tree variations, so bung it in the boot and off you go !

It took several calls from his mobile for me to realise that, after all, a tree might need some female delicate touch. It turned out that there did not seem to be the right size, nor the right shape as one of them looked like "a man with arms but no legs".

"It can'be that bloody traumatic for Chrissssssake" was I thinking to myself and decided to look after the tree matter myself, man with arms or not.

Blackheath sunday market, what a perfect opportunity. Stalls of handmade bread, hand made pig cutlets (yes they fed the pig themselves, his name was Pinky), hand made er soory picked carrots and red onions. And indeed, expectedly the Christmas tree seller.

Piece of cake then ?

First, being the only customer under 40, with no pushchair or 7 snotty year old, good luck ma chère, your legitimity to claim your tree and get the vendor's attention is highly jeopardized.

Seconldy, there are no price tags on any of the trees nor on the lovely little red buckets designed to host your Christmas icon, how cute !

Thirdly, add first and second and you'll soon understand you don't stand a chance of getting a decent pine item trophee for less than thirty quid.

But hey B and Q is open on a sunday and what a coincidence, I needed gardening gloves (for, as we all know, december is the peak season for gardening...). The size of the carpark exit queue was telling me that

a- they all had bought their tree already, what will I be left with ???

b- would the experience be any more pleasant than Oxford street on a saturday evening ?

c- gosh, who are all those kids in the back seats ?!

Christmas trees indeed I found, all shapes, men with no legs lookalike, skeletons lookalike, ski holidays mind that tree in front of you types.

Somehow though, it felt more like a tree cemetary than a celebration. "Poor trees, they cut their legs and god knows which little Romanian boy was exploited to supply our Western Christmas hunger". I was doomed, the trauma had worked on me too.

Of course one option remained, the tree in a pot one. How cute and robust did they look, plus I was going to be the one making sure it, he ???, would not die on torn wrapping paper all spine spread on the floor.

But think about it, because the same story goes on and on every december, how many Christmas trees in your garden by the time you have the pushchair and the snotty little guy ?

And anyway, doesn't it break your heart when you have to place your tree now become a brownish skeleton on the pavement by your bin in January ?

Think about it, you do not need that tree, just your neighbours and their pushchairs !