This year I have two Christmas trees. Two. Now, I live in a small flat, with a small garden (partly shared with the mysterious upstairs neighbours, who I only ever hear…). Do I need two trees? No. Do I want two trees? Not really. And yet I have two. Why? Why do I have two trees?? Simple. Man-flu.
I’d been under the weather for a few days, after my husband decided to be extra generous this Christmas, and pass on the cold he had. The germs were diluted down for me of course, because when he had the cold, it had presented as full blown ‘man-flu’, necessitating two days off work, intensive recuperation therapy in the form of The Band of Brothers box set, which he decided was best viewed from my sofa, thus infecting it further for me. Brilliant. Thanks for that. Git! Anyway, the cold (for man-flu is nothing more than a cold – c’mon guys, suck it up!) hit me a few Thursday’s ago. Just in time for my first @themarcothon run – great. Come the weekend the cold had all but gone, which was good, but this had been superseded by absolutely debilitating stomach pains and vomiting (sorry readers, no nicer way to get that across really) which was not good. As I was sofa bound, body convulsing and contorting in almost rhythmic display, I was in no fit state to hop in the car, drive to the middle of nowhere and pick up a fetching little Nordic Spruce to Christmas-up my life. I’d been really looking forward to that too. Boo stupid paralysing tummy nonsense. Boo! Step in the husband: “I’ll go pick it up, just give me the directions”. Hurrah! One less thing to worry about I thought, giving me more free time to concentrate on holding my guts in tormented agony. Awesome.
An hour or so later, the husband returns, practically skipping with triumph: “I got the tree, and the plant thing you wanted too”. Brilliant! I was very happy with said plant thing, it was gorgeous, and the bit of the tree I could see from my death position seemed good too. It looked green. It looked spikey. It was a Christmas tree. Awesome :). Roll on Sunday night, when we decided to bring it in and start decorating it. I was still a bit delicate, but too excited to wait for the husband, so out I went, onto the deck, in socked feet and highly unseasonable clothing to pull the blighter in, leaving a trail of needles in my wake (don’t worry, I cleaned those up immediately). I get it upright and pop it into the stand, then stand back to take a quick looksie. Hmm. Something isn’t right here. Where the frick has the light gone? Where’s the rest of the living room? Why am I being pushed into next door’s bedroom? Yup. That’s right. The husband, with all the best intention in the world, had only gone and bought an 8 foot tree! Cue eye rolling, and face palming. Good grief…
Now, I can blame the fact that I hadn’t noticed this balls-up before on two things:
1. I’d only seen a glimpse of it through my living room window. And it was right down the other end of the garden at the time.
2. I was delirious from the lurgy.
The husband, however, had no such excuses. His man-flu had disappeared on the Friday, and I’d been very clear in my instruction to get a 5 foot tree. The husband is 6 foot tall. Yes. Quite. I don’t think I need to say more on that. So now I had a monstrosity of a tree taking up my entire living room. It looked like frickin’ Narnia! I was half expecting to see Mr & Mrs Beaver pop out of the trunk and ask where Aslan was. Honestly, if you want something doing…
One huge tree and one semi-huge argument later, we were left scratching our heads. What do you do with an unwanted Christmas tree? Well for starters, you can’t take it back; we checked on that :). And it certainly couldn’t stay in the flat. We thought about giving it away, but being proper British folk, we don’t know our neighbours, and certainly weren’t about to break the ice with an 8 foot Christmas tree in tow. No sir. Perhaps one of our friends would like it. Wait. No. All our friends live in places smaller than ours, or miles away, or had no means of transporting it. And that sucker definitely wasn’t getting back in my tiny Clio without its restraining sheath. The husband suggested cutting it up and dumping it. What?! No! I couldn’t have it in the house for fear of turning into a tree dweller, but dismembering it and disposing of the remnants seemed a little severe. Not to mention a waste (I hate waste). And what about fulfilling its Christmas destiny? No, I couldn’t do that to poor Derek. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, we’d named him Derek. Not sure why really. But we did. And you can’t destroy something with a name can you? That’s just barbaric. Step in the husband: “Why don’t we put him on the deck, and have the outside look Christmassy too? We could go get a 5 foot tree for the living room, and then we’d have two trees!”. Hmm. Interesting… It solved the immediate problem, of getting Derek out of the flat so that we could reclaim our living room, so I was on board. And that is how I find myself with two Christmas trees this year.
So here’s Derek and Doug (trees are all males and must have first names beginning with D. It’s the rules. I don’t make the rules. Except that one. Which I made up.) trimmed and lit and looking super festive:
And there is one good thing about having two Christmas trees… twice as many presents, right? 😀