I’d like you to take a moment and imagine that you are looking at a Christmas tree for the very first time.
Then imagine that you are one-and-a-half feet tall, gazing up at the giant, green, prickly, glistening, chocolate-decorated beast.
That’s exactly what my one-and-a-half-year-old son, Jack, is going through.
The look of sheer bewilderment on his face is priceless.
Every time he walks into the lounge he just glares at the droopy foliage.
His little brain is asking questions that he can’t convey in words yet, but instead asks through the medium of gormlessness.
He’s got a point – a tree indoor is weird.
As if tidying up after two children, one dog and one me isn’t enough for my wife, she’s also got to deal with a slightly nervous-looking tree that sheds its load if someone inhales near it.
A Christmas tree isn’t for life; it’s barely for Christmas.