We’ve avoided the annual trudge to the local muddy field where we buy our Christmas tree. I must admit that this is more at my suggestion than Sal’s. I’ve long suspected that she has a thing for the farmer who has the fir franchise in these ‘ere parts, ever since, a few years ago after a fruitless attempt on my part to haggle the price, I heard him whisper, sotto voce, “don’t bring your father next time”. 

So, while we were walking Lucy around Ashton Park this morning we picked up a piece of fallen tree which has now been placed in a cleaned-up carboy from the garden with some lights and minimalist baubles. No “needles” to vacuum up from the car and house; no problem with new-year disposal; no guilt about the senselessness of growing a fir tree for a few years solely to cut it down to transport it into our homes to support our tat for a week or two. Bah!