Thank you, Norway!

The lovely Norwegians have sent us a lovely big tree, as they always do, that sits proudly in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum...

Wie grün sind Deine Blätter...

My lovely partner, Queer Royale, likes a Christmas tree, so we have one. He has done a good job. It's a handsome tree, in a commanding position on top of the dining table, and he has only half of the decorations appended yet.

The fact that I split up with my last partner - of many years - whilst decorating our tree and that my mother has been given all my life to Christmas hypomania and Boxing Day depression (culminating in proper suicide attempt and emergency hospital admission on the 26th a few years back) make me suspicious of the whole kitten caboodle. The buying and "trimming" of the tree can be a time of George & Martha Plimpton high drama chez nous.

I cite this video evidence in support of my contention that Christmas trees are untrustworthy:




Here's a pic that includes the pointy top bit too. We used to have a lovely treetop fairy but, for some reason, I gave it away to my sister. Then we got a really fabulous arab chap in a big floaty djellaba that did perfectly (very reminiscent of Madonna in the Frozen video) but we seem to have lost him in transit from one home to another. So now we have just the pointy red thing. It's not like there's a shortage of fairies in my life but somehow I haven't got round to finding one for the top of the tree.


I am undecided about Christmas trees. Once my partner has put one up, I must say that it adds to the general merriment of the Christmas thing. I cannot pretend that I would ever buy and decorate one, if left entirely to my own devices. However, I may very well be a curmudgeonly Scrooge-like figure who should be very grateful to those normal people who surround him for forcing him to connect with the real world, where Santa comes down chimneys and eats mince pies in your kitchen.

Tears for Fears Revisited