I BELONG to the ilk who do not relish Christmas time.
After a hard year that picks up its pace towards the year-end, for the media anyway, the thought of having to dive straight into the Christmas festivities, head first, makes me want to step off the planet, and float on yonder cloud, until it is over.
I hate the buying frenzy, the crowds, searching for parking, Bony-M’s Christmas music, the traffic and most of all, finding that dastardly Christmas tree.
That domesticity was not one of my talents or of remote interest to me, emerged early in life.
So I deplore those who have their gifts all bought and wrapped by October, their fridge and larder stocked by November, and their tree and Christmas decor, and home spring-clean ready for guests by 1 December.
I simply don’t have the time, temperament or inclination for this calm and centred planning.
You see, I live and die by deadlines. I move fast and I move furiously with a ferociousness few will interrupt.
In two days all will be done, except for that dastardly Christmas tree.
Some gypsy blood runs in my and my chosen one’s family tree so we have moved, a lot.
And when you move a lot, you tend to shove things like the Christmas tree and its box of ornamental attire, in some mystery place just to get the unpacking done as swiftly as possible.
So when the family dare pose the question, “where’s the Christmas tree”, I draw a blank. The movie in my mind reels on to the storage place of the Christmas tree in the past five houses, but cuts out when it reaches the present.
Talk to the trees
In vain I gaze around searching for an iota of green or glitter: or a twig. Any clue as to where it may be hidden while the family search my face for a sign of hope, then sigh for it’s again beyond be-leaf – “she’s lost the Christmas tree again.”
So we end up getting yet another one. (A pain as you know money does not grow on that proverbial tree).
The day will come, I assure them, when I will eventually find the place where the last 10 Christmas trees are languishing.
I went off fresh trees since the year we went out on a limb, and bought one, but it passed on way before it’s time, lost its spines making a huge mess, and the decorations slipped off its wilted branches.
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One year, my chosen one decided to take matters in hand a get a lovely tree early and himself packed it in an outside storage room. But it was forgotten about when a gardener was asked to tidy the said storage room, and we surmise it disappeared in a load to a charity shop, together with its box of decorations.
That year, my chosen one did protest too much and grew quite vociferous, especially when I dared suggest: “You did actually buy a tree and decorations?”
We bought another one.
Falling out of trees
This weekend, I was quietly rummaging through boxes of art stuff and so on when the daughter appeared and said in an irritated tone that resembled mine far too closely for comfort (the apple, apparently, does not fall far from the…). “You’re looking for the Christmas tree, aren’t you?” Denial is the best form of defense, ha! This I learnt from her, so I stared at the accusation directly in its grim face and denied the allegation.
“It’s far too early to set up the tree. I’m looking for recipe books,”.
“You do know it’s the 18th of December?” She asked then withdrew in a huff.”
Well, suffice to say, I have not yet found the tree. I did spot a bauble in the collage box (don’t ask), but found nothing even vaguely resembling branches.
Why don’t the children of this house outgrow the damn tree?
Usually a problem-solver, but feeling like I had committed treason, I announced that this year our theme is rustic to match the low and rusty budget, and we will re-purpose a tree from…and I get vague to stimulate the family’s creative juices…from something interesting we find.
“She’s lost the tree again,” they chorused.
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