We put the Christmas tree up today, along with a decorated twig for the study. The tree had been sitting down in the garage for a week, still in its netting bag because the Systems Administrator warned that if we unbagged it in the garage it would get tangled up with the lawn mower, the overwintering garden furniture and everything else and be a complete pig to get out again and up the stairs to the sitting room.
Our tree was labelled 'locally grown' and in a flash of bald retail honesty 'needle drop'. I like traditional Norway spruces, though. True, they shed, but the needle retaining Nordmann pines don't have that fabulous resinous smell. A trail of needles followed the progress of the tree into the house, and there was a moment of tension after we'd screwed it upright in its stand and cut through the netting, in case every needle fell in a shivering heap leaving a skeleton of bare branches, but they didn't. We'll be sweeping up leaves through the Christmas period and finding the odd needle for the rest of next year, but that's traditional. I sawed an inch off the bottom of the trunk and gave it plenty of water to try and mitigate the rate of drop.
Untangling the lights took a very long time, but both sets worked, which was a relief since B&Q have probably sold out by now, and Our Ginger lost interest in them before getting shouted at or electrifying himself. He did not look at all impressed when we first brought the tree inside. It's an outrage to the normal order of the world, having trees in the sitting room. Cats are nothing if not creatures of routine. At least he didn't scent mark it, as was the fate of a previous tree many years and some other cats ago.
The hazel twig in the study is a bit of fun, to give us something sparkly to look at when we're sitting by the stove. It is propped up in a flower pot I already had using cobble stones borrowed from the back garden, and decorated with silver, gold and bronze balls that we already had but had stopped using on the main tree. The festive red and white gingham table cloth is likewise left over from an anniversary party (and home made with fabric from Colchester's now sadly defunct remnant shop).
It seemed a waste of a dry and extraordinarily warm afternoon to spend it decorating the tree and the twig, so once they were both installed in their containers I left it until after dark to dress them, which gave the spruce a chance to relax and spread its branches after a week done up in netting. Meanwhile I went to buy another load of bag your own mushroom compost. It was very wet and very sticky after the recent rain, and I got a spectacular amount of it on my trousers and a fair amount on my fleece.
I let the hens out as soon as I got back, thinking that they could have a short spell out in the garden while I unloaded the compost and did some weeding. It was unlucky that they had just fussed their way round the edge of the drive to the outside tap at the moment that I went over to the tap carrying my boot liner in order to rinse it. The chickens did not like the boot liner at all. Two of them flew four feet vertically into the air, clucking frantically, and fled back to their run then refused to come out again, standing in a huddle and staring at me suspiciously. I considered shutting them in so that I could get on with spreading the manure unhindered, but decided I felt too mean about spoiling their walk, and ended up bribing them to come back out with sultanas.
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