Standing up the Christmas tree

Merry Christmas to all you poor souls who read this garbage

Dec 23, 2024

Forthwith Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the top ten Christmas movies of all time:

Back to the Future (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Rocky (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Rocky III (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Rocky II (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Back to the Future part II (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Blade Runner (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Back to the Future part III (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
Rocky IV (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)
The Godfather part II (this isn’t a Christmas movie — Ed)

Forthwith Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you a tale so boring it will shrink your brain about how I bought and set up a Christmas tree (with the help of the Wife) last week.

A lady in the outside yard at the hardware store helps me to choose a tree. It takes a while for us both to take the netting off the conifer so that I can inspect it. I get trapped in between some other Nordmann firs as we do so and I accidentally jam the tree’s stump into my left foot. This should have been a clue as to what would transpire later. Then I almost trip over and face plant the floor as I step over the tree. The conifer I have chosen looks to be in rude health, with strong bushy branches. Its needles look as if they would survive an attack by Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker.

‘It’s better to have a real tree than a fake one, isn’t it?’ I say, trying to ignore the burning pain in my toes.

‘I have an artificial one at home,’ says the assistant.

‘Very good idea. I might do the same next year.’

The lady has to call a colleague to come and re-net the tree. It is so big that it almost breaks the netting machine. The two shop assistants have to push the Nordmann fir through twice to get it properly netted. With the tree on a trolley I head back into the store to pay for it. I push the trolley with great difficulty, bumping into many display items.

‘Let me help you with that sir,’ says the other assistant running up behind me.

He pulls the trolley behind him and has total command of it as he marches me to the check-out desks.

I navigate my way through the car park, pulling the trolley behind me while making sure I do not damage any vehicles. I make it to the car without having to exchange insurance details with any irate shoppers. After stuffing the conifer into the car while pulling my hamstring, tweaking my lower back and reigniting a little gyp in my shoulder, I set off into the pre-Christmas traffic on my way back to the mansion.

It takes an eternity to return home via the petrol station. The radio plays some beautiful carols, although I become rather annoyed at the prospect of the carols disappearing off the wireless by 27 December. I recall a tweet I levelled at Classic FM a year or two ago where I accused them of being philistines — or some such term of abuse — for their refusal to play carols until at least the 12th day of Christmas. I then get even more worked up as I contemplate the prospect of everyone starting to take down their Christmas decorations before they have even properly digested their dry-as-a-bone turkey meat and stuffing.

Back at the mansion, I find a blunt rusty saw in our shed and prepare myself to saw a bit of the stump off the tree: I stretch my gypy shoulder, unsuccessfully try to touch my toes and do some star jumps to get the lungs going.

Once I begin sawing, the gyp in my shoulder flares up slightly again. Nevertheless, I manage to shorten the stump by a couple of inches — despite the rusty saw. A poor workman blames his tools, but a master craftsmen can mould sculptures with a blunt spoon (what?!?!? — Ed).

Taking the mighty conifer into the mansion’s kitchen-diner I attempt to stick it down into the stand we have used to hold up our Christmas trees in years gone by.

It does not fit.

I attempt to push the stump into the stand again, trying not to have an eye poked out by one of the tree’s needle-rich branches.

It refuses to squeeze into the stand. I carry the tree back outside and lay it on the Mother-in-Laws’ bench. I attempt to force the stand onto the stump in this horizontal position. Despite my Herculean strength, it is a hopeless task: the stump is far too thick.

I berate myself for having not measured the stump (and stand’s width) before purchasing the tree. I berate myself for not checking if the stand would fit before sawing the tree. I berate myself for not having an artificial tree that one can unpack and stand up at one’s leisure without having to give one’s shoulder immense gyp. I berate myself for having the foresight and planning skills of an LSD-taking drunk lemming (what? — Ed).

I begin attempting to saw the tree into a cone shape, before deciding to take off another sizeable chunk off the stump, for some unknown reason. Well, it was unknown to me, at least. I blame Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — I am sure I saw him from the corner of my eye enjoying my predicament from the safety of a bush behind me.

I resume sculpting the stump into a cone using the blunt rusty saw. My shoulder gives me immense gyp. I take the tree back inside. It does not fit. I proceed to take the Nordmann fir back outside and this time place it on the garden table and hack at it again. My shoulder give me a few more doses of immense gyp.

The Wife sticks her head out of one the window’s upstairs.

‘You shouldn’t have cut so much off it,’ she says.

‘I realise that now,’ I say, unable to mask my immense frustration.

‘You need to file it down,’ she adds.

‘That’s what I’m trying to do, believe it or not.’

The Mother-in-Law asks if she can help.

I decline her offer and silently weep to myself.

I curse the 16th-century German who came up with the idea of sticking a tree in your house for Christmas. I curse our Christmas tree stand. I curse the hardware store for having stocked trees with such thick stumps.

I keep hacking. It still does not fit. I curse the blunt rusty saw. I curse my gypy shoulder.

I carry on sawing. The stump has now been formed into a very small, thin cone shape

Eventually, the Wife comes downstairs. I have what I think is a genius idea. I shove bits of wood into the base of the stand and the Wife helps me as I insert the tree into the stand. My thinking is that the extra wood will help the very thin-looking short stump to maintain the tree’s balance (not one for physics at school, were you? — Ed). I turn the three screws at the side of the stand into the conifer’s stump. The stand cracks underneath one of the screws, rendering it virtually useless. The tree does not stay upright. We remove it from the stand.

I curse the stand. I curse the tree. I curse my gypy shoulder.

I silently weep to myself.

‘I’ll have to get another tree,’ I say.

‘No you won’t,’ says the Wife.

‘Yes I will.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘I will.’

‘Won’t’

‘Will.’

‘Won’t.’

‘Will.’

‘Won’t.’

(What is this, a script for the worst pantomime of all time?!?! — Ed)

The Wife has an idea. And it is a good one.

We place the tree into a large plant pot (after I saw off some of the lower branches). I hold the conifer, while the Wife shovels soil into the pot all around the base of it.

It stands upright, perhaps slightly crooked, but unaided by human hands.

It is a small Christmas miracle.

Forthwith Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the following poll to you:

COMING VERY SOON:

Progress report:

The Anchorite, my new novella, is coming out early 2025. See above (yeah, thanks — Ed).
I will simultaneously write the next Albert Poniatowski novel and my new novella as an experiment to see if I can work on two projects at the same time. And also because I am running behind schedule for a wide variety of reasons. Best person to blame? Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker.

Take it easy, oh, and MERRY CHRISTMAS.