Right. It’s involved two step ladders, several beer mats (for balance, duh) and it’s time for the big switch on, tad-daa… okay, so who moved the transformer? It’s kept in the same place all year, and at this point in the proceedings I get it out, plug the lights in and va-voom, the perfect tree.
Only someone used it during the year, isn’t owning up and we have no clue where it is.
We have the perfect tree, no twinkling lights (1300 of them should be on and sparkling) and a dog who’s looking at it as if we’ve provided him with an inside toilet.
I am beyond mad. I hate putting up the tree. In an ideal world it should be done calmly with joy and serenity whilst listening to Christmas carols, and yes, maybe, sipping some festive cheer.
Instead I’m hot, sweaty, covered in dust, scratched by the 3649 bloody branches (the box it came in has these alarming facts written all over it) and instead of carols I’m listening to the dog bark and howl at this new thing in the room. It was here last year, and it was no problem. This year it obviously offends his karma. If he doesn’t shut up he’ll end up being a decoration on the darn thing.
But I can’t put the decorations on the tree till the lights have been tested. We all know that. Arrgghhh. There are boxes of Christmas stuff over every bit of floor, the dust cloud is getting worse. And the transformer is STILL missing.
Yes, I have checked EVERYWHERE in the house, so I’m hotter, more sweaty and in need of something calming. Forget festive cheer, I’m thinking vodka.
This is supposed to be fun and lovely – the highlight of the domestic year.
The dog is commando crawling towards the tree with low throaty growls and a manic glint in his eye. The snow’s starting to fall outside again and I need to get a grip. It’s a Christmas tree, the transformer will (please God) turn up.
It’s time to get outside and calm me, and the dog, down. At least the below freezing air will get the dust out of my lungs.
Will let you know about the transformer.