Oh Christmas Tree

 

It’s December 1999. 

I am heavily pregnant with my fourth child. My husband and I are in our local garden centre helping our three young children aged 2,4 and 8 choose a bauble for the tree. 

An annual tradition.

And then I see it. A tall, broad, handsome figure in the distance. A fake tree that looks real. As I get closer, the vision doesn’t disappoint. 

It’s expensive - £140 - but this Christmas we can afford it. 

For the first time since we married in 1989 we are feeling flush. 

In an attempt to cheer my depressed husband up a few months earlier I nominated him for a Father of the year competition in the Daily Mail. 

As evidence I submit true stories of how he works full time as a police officer, studies Law part-time, runs a junior football team and rescued the local Beaver pack from extinction.

 My final piece of evidence is the fact that a few years earlier he saved my life when I collapsed with an ectopic pregnancy. 

The judges agreed. We won the top prize- £10,000 so this year we have some spare cash. 

Every year for the past 23 Christmases my husband meticulously builds the tree, strings fairy lights in perfect proportions around the broad branches before we are allowed to add the baubles we have amassed over 34 Christmases together. 

Except one year. 2006. 

The tree was waiting in its box to be assembled and we had a row. My husband stormed off to bed. 

In revenge , I and my four children cobbled together a magnificently messy tree. 

As I sat back on the sofa snuggled up with my children watching the Take That Christmas special with a glass of wine in my hand I felt invincible. If we did split up. I was having custody of the tree. 

We made up the following morning and that tree stood in a stark warning to my husband of the consequences of behaving like a toddler for the entire festive season.

Happy Christmas