Christmas chez Newly was an extravagant affair. Mainly due to the tree.
Last year I entirely failed to acquire a tree. Or any decorations. Or even the compulsory Perry Como Christmas CD to be purchased, listened-to and then quietly disposed of with the aid of a potato peeler after an aged relation puts the damn thing on for the tenth time at the highest possible volume.
Tch, I mean - if I happen to play a little bit of Thievery Corporation too loudly in my car, I get stern looks. Possibly more down to my dubious taste in music rather than the rattling of the Golf Of Doom's windows. But when my grandmother sticks on her bloody "El Divo" operatic nonsense and blasts next door's cat into the neighbouring suburb, she seems to get away with it. Doubtless by pretending to be deaf, which is, after all, the only way to truly enjoy any sort of opera.
But I digress. This year, following much urging from First-Born, I acquired a tree. Sadly artificial, but magnificent nonetheless.
It was epic in its dimensions. One of those purchases that look so much smaller in the shop, and then consume your flat like someone pulled a ripcord in its base. Kind of like what happens to mediterranean women exactly three days after marriage.
First-born was suitably impressed. More so that I'd managed to assemble it wrong and stuck all the big branches on the top and the little ones on the base on my first attempt.
"No-one's got a tree like this!" she enthused, gazing in awe at the bizarre upside-down green plastic pyramid.
"Indeed" I muttered, and submitted to the shame of having to read the instruction manual for assembling a Christmas tree.
