I have something to admit that feels weirdly big. Shameful. And it is this: For the second year in a row, we have not been arsed to have a Christmas tree in our house. Last year, I was gripped with the most chronic case of Cannot-Be-Arsed-Itis I have ever known. I had thought it might be a one-off, given that the year had been a hectic rollercoaster of change for me. I became the CEO of a charity, which packed my 2022 with multiple steep learning curves. Alongside that, I was juggling other writing, podcasting and broadcasting roles. My daughter, frazzled with A-level stresses, had a bad accident just before Christmas in which she fainted, smacked her head on a toilet seat and knocked her two front teeth clean out. And so, when the second weekend of December rolled around and none of us had made a move to buy a tree - and they’re selling them a 60 seconds walk away from our house - we looked at each other one morning and said, ‘Yeah, shall we just… not? For just this year, yes, let’s not.’ It doesn’t mean we’re grumpy scrooges, I told myself. It’s just a frankly unnecessary thing to add to the pile right now.
And honestly I love Christmas. I love the blurred boundaries of time and space where sherry is for breakfast and crisp sandwiches are the absolutely correct choice for Boxing Day dinner. I love cosying up with the family to watch marathon telly. I love that one of my sisters in law needs our annual Christmas Eve pub dinner order by May. And I love that we end up doing stupid things as a family that would never happen at any time of year, like the year we all had a spontaneous forward roll competition. My other sister in law won that one, although I’m still unclear on what the judging criteria was. I think it was because it was her house. Anyway I nearly threw up. Speaking of which, I might actually make good on my yearly threat this year and melt down all the Quality Street dregs into a sauce for breakfast pancakes. That, I have the energy for. But decorating a tree? The will has simply exited my body and I don’t think it’s ever coming back.
I’ve been gripped by an overwhelming sense of futility when I think of all that tree-related labour. Him indoors drags it home, but then the rest of the crap is all left to me: Getting it situated and stable. Climbing through the rubble in the attic to locate the decorations. Fiddling them, one by one, onto the branches and already burdened with the knowledge that this tree is already dying. Spending hours trying to untangle lights that were perfectly untangled when you packed them away a year ago. Failing to untangle the lights and so just sort of chucking them on, somehow. And standing back to appreciate your work, only to discover that the look of your tree really… sucks. The sinking disappointment that yet again, you have failed to have a tree that looks anything like the one in that insanely rich family’s house in Home Alone.
Then untangling it all off the tree again, packing away everything to drag back to the attic before hauling the browning carcass to the tree graveyard in the local park.
I try to tell myself how lovely it will be to have the house glowing with the twinkly lights bouncing off the tinsel. Somehow that has just lost the motivational pull it used to have.
But I also feel very guilty about it. In some ways I feel that refusing to Christmas-ify my home is breaking some sacred societal pact. Maybe the neighbours - who all have trees proudly glowing from their front room windows - are all on some whatsapp group, clutching their pearls about me and arguing about who’s going to have a word.
Instagram’s current onslaught of incredible trees, as well as everyone, from influencers to my close friends, proudly flaunting their exquisite Christmas tablescapes, does make me wonder why I just can’t find my yuletide muse. My friend’s partner, David Lawson, gets paid to be a Christmas tree genius:
My god, Laura Jackson’s out here making her own fabric crackers:
Some people are brilliant at assembling foliage and twigs and slices of dried orange and cinnamon sticks and plopping it on a table with some eclectic china amidst the Camembert and Brie to create something heavenly to look at. Whenever I’ve tried, it just ends up looking like I was interrupted by a zombie apocalypse.
Maybe this is exactly why I’ve just lost all my mojo for the entire thing. When Instagram has upped the ante for people to be more demonstrative in their ‘Christmasing’ , it rams it home even harder that my Christmas game is simply too poor to even bother.
So, in conclusion, my truth is: Fuck the tree. Am I the only one?
But before I go, here is a list of things, Christmassy or otherwise, that have actually given me cheer this week:
The Ultimate Christmas Pub Quiz
We organised a pub quiz in aid of the charity I run, Children With Cancer UK. A star-studded list of team captains, like Matt Goss, Ricky Wilson, Mel C, Emma Bunton and John Simm, to name a few, teamed up with generous supporters who paid to play. My favourite thing was quiz host Rob Brydon asking people to name tunes sung with the wrong lyrics, like this - Goldfinger with Wannabe lyrics.
Peter Pan at the Palladium
My friend Emma Wilson, (Emma B of the radio), took me as her guest to my first ever pantomime. I’ve never been before and this one was absolutely spectacular. Julian Clary and Jennifer Saunders star in a visual feast that delivers relentless jokes, filth and the campest costumes you’ll ever see. Superb.
A gift from Sarah, Duchess of York
I’ve only recently met Sarah Ferguson - when we were paired up to present on Lorraine together, randomly! She was also a team captain at our charity quiz. She gave me a very thoughtful present of a pretty cotton handkerchief, from the brand Tamielle. It’s an enterprise employing rural Bulgarian craftswomen, giving them a livelihood. Each handkerchief comes with a note from the woman who made it. It’s very sweet.
A Q&A session with Carey Mulligan
I was invited to a small screening of Maestro, hosted by Netflix, which was followed by a Q&A with one of the stars. It is without a doubt one of the best films I’ve seen in years. Of course, a biopic about Leonard Bernstein comes with an incredible soundtrack and his work is used to exquisite affect by star and director Bradley Cooper. In particular I was very moved by the sensitive, but also realistic, portrayal of terminal illness. After the film, Carey was charming and honest - I loved her for admitting she knew little about Bernstein until she was sent the script. That made me feel better about me being the same. And she made me laugh by saying, ‘I’ve made a solemn promise to my husband to stop dying in films.’ I thought she’d be more aloof and ‘actory’. She was a delight.
Merry Christmas everyone!
We have some pre-lit branches in a vase in our fireplace having adopted two young cats who would destroy the usual tree this year. I think my husband prefers it.
I don't have a tree either