Carole is, pretty much, the worst person to go shopping for Christmas decorations with.
We went on a hunt for a new Christmas tree this morning because our current one is old and tired. It’s spent the last five or six Christmases with a cat lying in its branches. It’s suffered, is what we’re saying. It’s still entirely functional as a tree, but I fancied a change and talked Carole into it as well. Because reasons.
So we went looking.
Trees this year come in two forms – narrow, or pre-fitted with lights and horrible shitty fake berries and pine cones.
Carole likes neither of these two options.
But we daren’t get a real one because there’s a huge difference between a lightweight tree toppling over under the weight of a cat and a wobbly-based real tree toppling over under the weight of a cat.
Also, it was chuffing boring cutting all the branches off in the New Year so we could take it to the tip. In fact, if we’d never had real Christmas trees Carole would never have got caught speeding (to the tip, of all places) and ended up on a speed awareness course.
So anyway, we bought a tall, narrow tree.
Begrudgingly, some might say.
Not necessarily verbally, sometimes she said it physically.
But it still happened.
So now we get to spend a tense December with Carole hating the tree for every single day it’s up and me trying to convince her it’s great.
Which it will be. Because ours won’t have been assembled and then had a plethora of customers in B&Q ramming their hands into it. We also cover out tree with so much crap that the actual shape and structure of the tree will disappear under numerous felt owls and ornaments that I have never seen before but Carole will explain, at length, that we have had for ages.
Maybe I’ll let her get one of those projectors that you put in the garden and it shines Christmas tat on your house.
I bet that will cheer her up.