P.O.P.D It’s a serious affliction and I am a sufferer. There are no support groups. No slightly tilted, sympathetic, head nods. No gushing enquiries as to how you are or recommendations how to cope. It’s tough and I face it alone.
Even himself has no sympathy. Each year, at this time, I know it’s coming but am powerless against it. Now, instead of fighting, I now modify my behaviour and submit. Slightly. I refuse to be Perfect. Ornament. Placement. Disorder’s b*tch any longer.
No more than 7ft…
This year it began early while choosing our tree. An annual task I am actually banned from. To be fair, I have previous. One time, ONE TIME, you visit a forest and chose a tree believing it to be 7ft and not the 14ft tree actually delivered.
However when I was called by the school to go and collect middle kid, poorly apparently, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to grab our tree from the farm shop right next door.
No more than 7ft, no more than 7ft, no more than 7ft…. Hello, I need a tree no taller than 7ft please, my marriage depends on it. I also no longer own a van so reluctantly remember there are vehicular restrictions.
A pleasant chap directed me to the 6ft /7ft section. I glanced longingly at the 10ft section, reminding myself I love our wee cottage and picked a tree.
The choice is made
The tree chap proudly lead me to a lovely full tree, standing glorious at 7ft in height.
We dragged it over to the modestly-sized family car, middle kid miraculously recovering from what illness had plagued her moments before.
Laughing heartily at her mother trying to remember how to get the seats down, we huffed the tree in the boot (hurrah).
Delicious pine smell wafting, Bublé on the radio and feeling mighty chuffed with ourselves, we set off for home. Christmas was well and truly on its way.
It only took one whole week for the tree to make it from the car to the front porch to the living room.
But wait, where is the base? The mister looks at me as he asks and I just laugh, how would I know?
The actual logistics etc are not my department <sheesh> I am purchasing, décor and design! If I’m feeling generous, I’ll help with fairy light distribution.
If not, I’ll arrive in time for the Perfect Placing of the Ornaments.
He’s apparently seen the base in the garden, somewhere ‘safe’ because he’d seen it at some point recently and knew we’d need it.
Every bauble in the world
Two hours and one minor meltdown later, the tree is finally up and ready for every shiny bauble and glittery ornament in the world. Because, according to himself, this is apparently how many we own.
Now, I won’t try to deny I’m a fan of Christmas but I feel his blatant exaggeration could have slightly soured the task in hand. Be gone ya big grinch, this is a job for true descendants of Buddy the Elf only.
As I unpack the (many many) boxes of tree ornaments I indignantly declare I must have had a cull last year as we are ‘missing’ some. He presents me with another box marked ‘tree decorations’. Aye, okay.
Luckily the tree chap wasn’t lying when he said it would be a ‘full’ tree. She is as wide as she is tall. While I am thrilled, he points out part of the TV is now obscured. Who needs TV when there are twinkly lights?
The Art of the Tree
There is a civilised order to this task and now the kids are older, it is time for them to learn the delicate art of the perfect tree.
I’m not interested in the versions produced with during their formative years, remembering back to when it looked like Christmas had literally sneezed them on.
Lights first. Then less favourite ones to the back. Then big baubles and any ‘heavy’ ones.
All sentimental ones need to be placed carefully. In full view. To bring all the joy and memories.
Small, end of branch ones next, before finally placing the most valuable one of all.
The toilet roll angel with yellow wool hair and a drawn-on smiley face. Irreplaceable.
