For the past 20-or-so years our Christmas tree has come from a wonky, mis-shapen pine near our house. Its annual pruning consisted of us lopping off a branch and carting it home for the festive season.
But this year a logging crew turned up, taking all the tall, straight trees and mercilessly slaying our wonky friend. It wouldn't have been any good as a log so I think they were just putting it out of its misery.
Old Wonky will be sadly missed, so when I saw some of his friends and relations for sale I thought – why not buy one to remember him by?
I was, as chance would have it, driving my husband's ute. So I pulled in and asked for just a small tree.
They didn't have any small trees. Most people, they said, buy a big tree and chop it to size. Fair enough, I said, I'll have a big tree. In fact, give me a big bushy tree (which would be a nice change as Old Wonky provided pretty sparse foliage – or should that be needle-age?)
My choice of tree was dragged forth by a moderately sized volunteer no longer in the first flush of youth. Between us we lifted, pushed and shoved the spiky article in the direction of the ute's deck.
But when we stepped back to gauge our progress it appeared we'd only loaded a fraction of the tree. The rest was still sitting on the concrete.
Maybe if I climb on the deck and pull, I suggested.
I went to put one foot on the tyre and swing myself onto the deck, but realised I had miscalculated. A recent injury has seriously curtailed my ute hurdling career. I couldn't even get my foot high enough to stand on the tyre.
Glancing about to make sure no one was looking I grabbed my leg and helped my foot onto the tyre. Then I gripped the sides of the deck and…nothing happened. I had no oomph. I resorted to pulling myself up with my arms and flopping on to the deck like an elephant seal beaching itself on the rocks.
But there was still more heaving to do. The tree was resisting its fate, but faced with dragging it home tied to the towbar…which take it from me doesn't end well…we heaved and shoved till the tree was aboard, mostly.
Time to tie it on. With the tie-downs that were in the toolbox. The toolbox that was on the deck. Underneath the tree.
I wasn't taking the tree back off to get at the toolbox. Surely there would be baling twine in the ute?
If it was my vehicle there would have been baling twine. Plus dog-leads, horse halters and leadropes, discarded clothing, footwear – some even in pairs, bags both plastic and re-usable, water bottles, empty coffee cups…
But this was hubby's ute and he tidies it. After a vigorous rummage I got lucky and found a solitary shoelace.
I shoelaced the tree firmly to the vehicle, said a quick prayer to the gravity gods (who I suspect I have offended somewhere along the line) and drove forth.
It wasn't until I got home that I realised I had to get the tree off the vehicle.
It was all I could do to clamber back on board and undo the shoelace so I decided the ute could keep its Christmas ornament until I could find an unwitting relation or two to help me lug it inside.
The poor tree was starting to wilt by the time the cavalry arrived, complete with two small, excited tree-decorating-enthusiasts.
The bushy behemoth was dragged inside, sweeping things off the kitchen bench and dining table as it went. It was propped in a corner and tied firmly to a handy window-catch to keep it upright.
The tree was so tall that the grandboys could only reach as far as its middle. I had to put a halt to proceedings when they started to use a "stand well back and throw" technique to get the baubles to the top.
It touches the roof and bends over at the top. It's so bushy it's blocking the light. The tinsel is wonky and the baubles keep dropping off but it smells fantastic – it's a real pine tree.
It's so real that Hugo the Chihuahua has even pee'd on it.
Merry Christmas.
