Dan Morris: There's a spruce loose aboot this hoose
We’d have loved to have broken the details of The Budget to you – then again, so would’ve the Chancellor.
Moving swiftly on from the most farcical news story of last week, I want to begin with a big thank you to the staff at County Hospital, Stafford, for their exemplary care of my daughter after a minor mishap last Thursday. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – NHS staff are working under extreme pressure and deserve unlimited gratitude, particularly when performing their magic with toddlers. Sincerely, folks, thank you.
Despite chuntering on last week with a fair bit of anti-Christmas spirit and general ‘bah humbug’, over the last seven days I have experienced something of an inner transformation and am now ready to get the festive season kicked off in earnest.
This may have had something to do with having ridden two of our region’s fabulous Polar Express attractions in the space of 48 hours. Anyone who isn’t moved by a three-year-old’s face when they see a magical Christmas steam train for the first time just doesn’t have a soul.
Suffice to say my Christmas spirit has been awoken, and today – like many people across the land – I’ll be putting the tree up.
The activity that for many people is one of the most enjoyable memory makers of the whole festive season, choosing, placing and decorating one of nature’s finest firs in honour of Advent, is, I have to say, always a joy to me.
As soon as that tree is secured in its bracket I’m transported straight away to over three decades of the happiest memories I possess – family members no longer with us, but bearing broad smiles, and four generations of laughing, loving faces getting stuck in to a wholesome ritual. As I’ve talked about in years past, I can be somewhat controlling when it comes to decorating our sprightly spruce, with rules around bauble spacing and colour clashing that would make Courtney Cox look placid. But this year I will be very much toning that down as this is the first year that Sproglet Morris will be big enough to get stuck in and help.
The excitement emanating from her cunning and mischievous visage has been palpable.
Over the last couple of weeks the dining room table has become ever more populated with new decorations, and the ratio of pink to every other colour of the rainbow is tipping in a direction that it never has before.
While in the last two years I have opted for more of a modest ‘twig tree’ affair (gargantuan Nordmann firs mixed with Under-3s and a black Lab pup can be a recipe for disaster), this year we’re going to go all out in the style of Chevy Chase à la National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.
I’ve always loved the idea of lumberjacking it up and cutting down my own Christmas tree. There are places across our region where, with supervision, you can do this, but, as has been pointed out to me, my unsteady hand is the stuff of legend, and chainsaws are probably not the best idea for yours truly.
I’ll probably stick to the old fashioned way and let the experts do the chopping, but I’ll be there with the tinsel to do the trimming.
The big question this year will be who gets the top job of crowning our perfect pine with the star?
Like Arnie himself à la Jingle All The Way, I’ve always upheld an absolute rule that this job is for me and me alone. Yet now that the true boss in our family is a sass pants toddler whose wardrobe is ever increasingly resembling that of the pink Power Ranger, I might have to concede that this honour should no longer be mine.
Maybe I’ll hold on to it for one more year – she can’t quite reach yet, after all… my ego has nothing to do with it, I promise…
By the end of this evening, there’ll be a spruce in the hoose, and she’ll be tarted up fit for a ball.
I can’t wait to smile as I pass the (if you think it through) somewhat absurd tradition of taking one of nature’s greatest creations, chopping it down and covering it in glitter on to the next generation.
Who knows – by the time my little ‘un does the same, she may be helping her kids decorate a tree on Mars. Crazier things have happened (except, of course, that they really, really haven’t. Still, a boy can dream).
All I hope is that this daft but joyous practice brings her the same glee it always has for me, and that she’s lucky enough to have it as a conduit to happy thoughts for as long as she lives.
And, she can sort the top of the tree – she’s the only star I’ll ever need.
