As I write this, I am awaiting delivery of one real Christmas tree. I’ll be honest: it’s not something I ever expected to be doing in November. But Himself went rogue at a Christmas market over the weekend and ordered a tree without my knowledge, and here we are.
I am not especially happy about this state of affairs.
It’s bad enough that he did it without me. I mean, choosing a tree has been a joint affair every Christmas since we moved in together 6 years ago, and it makes me sad that that little tradition has been broken. Himself’s exasperated defence went something like “Lookit, there’s nothing very romantic about driving around in a panic on a Saturday evening a couple of weeks before Christmas looking for the perfect tree while you freak out about it getting dark and not being able to see them.”
As if I’d ever freak out.
The cheek of it.
He has also – quite literally – brought Christmas to our house way too early for my liking. I can cope with it on the streets and in the shops, but in my own gaff I’ve always decorated around Mam’s unwritten festive timetable where Christmas runs from around the 8th December to the 8th January. I don’t like to hear Christmas music on the radio or see Christmas movies before the 1st December, so Himself did himself no favours when he accidentally tuned into Wham’s Last Christmas last night.
My Christmas seems to be getting underway a little bit earlier than planned this year but tell me this: when does Christmas kick off in your house?