Tree time

A thick Dickensian mist has smothered Bristol, and indeed it would appear most of southern England, as flights have accordingly been grounded at Heathrow. The temperature in the car read 1.5oc, and from the chill I'm inclined to believe it. All this helps one to feel Christmasy; looking out of my window, the darkness is punctuated only by squares of light, some with twinkling trees. Further on, orange smudges show the streetlights over the cycle track. What must people think when looking at our house, however: that one essential piece of festive verdure is still conspicuous by its absence...

As I blogged last year, our attempts at tree buying have never been happy. However, this year it was worse than ever; we came home empty-handed. After rooting around several "farms" as they call themselves (in my mind I picture miniature trees hopping around a paddock), nothing proved satisfactory. Every single one seemed to have some defect, most were asymmetrical and bush-like - nothing that we wanted as the centrepiece for our celebrations. I suppose it was our fault: we'd left it too late, but I think the fiasco serves as a metaphor for Christmas in general.

We boost up this Christian festival (although it has undoubtedly now been appropriated for a secularised society) as the paragon of family togetherness, culinary excellence (just look at the Radio Times and bear witness to the shear number of cookery programmes) and unqualified giving. Yet what is the reality? Like our many prospective trees, it's a long way from the shining ideal.