Having spent the last week being trained for my new job – and loving it – I walked into town to pay my weekly visit to the greengrocer. Basket in hand, I set forth in hot pursuit of coriander leaves, butternut squashes and boiled sweets. En-route, I was leafleted by an acquaintance distributing invitations to the official “switching on” of the Christmas tree lights. An event to be followed by a live nativity complete with animals, a four day old baby, mince pies and hot drinks!
Thus propelled into the festive spirit, we went in search of the unillumined topiary. Oh dear, oh dear! If there is a sadder tree propped crookedly for all to witness its pathetic inadequacy, I would hate to see it. Our poor tree is – well, average. Its height, shape and colour are all average (at best) and its only remarkable feature is its wonkiness and accompanying crib scene “kindly donated by the Knights of St. Columba”. (If you’ve never heard of them, join the club; we hadn’t either. But, like everything else, they can be googled.)
This evening, festive spirit firmly in place, we shall watch the miracle of fairy lights transforming our mediocre specimen into a tree “fit for purpose”, before dashing to mince pies, live animals and a newborn baby. Happy days!
