It’s the 1st January 2021, and the Christmas tree is down. I’ve no idea why it’s down, I’d have thought it’d been glad to see the end of the 365 day s***show that concluded at midnight. I’ll have to see if MiracleGro manufacture a horticultural version of prozac to pep the fella back up.
Clearly, it goes without saying the introductory paragraph of this pièce littéraire is fictional. If trees do get depressed, which as they are a living species I’d guess is possible, they don’t (I’m assuming) have any way of communicating such darkness to humankind.
Real life isn’t like the Disney animation Pocahontas where the willow tree and the eponymous character oft nattered like a couple of old fish wives over the garden fence. This verbal engagement courtesy of the tree miraculously attaining a mouth whenever young Pocs visited her manor.
During its four week tenure at chez Strachan, the Norwegian fir tree showed a sheer and utter indifference towards engaging in conversation with yours truly. That’s not saying it didn’t have the powers of conversation akin to the willow tree in Pocahontas. Its silence may’ve been a consequence of having no desire to indulge in the silliness I ordinarily bring to the conversational smorgasbord.
For all I know, the fir may’ve borne oration wherewithal that’d even procure kudos from curmudgeonly professor of phonetics Henry Higgins, from My Fair Lady. It’s silence merely consequential of wishing to avoid becoming embroiled in the untamed frivolity I habitually peddle.
I’d apologise profusely if the tree was genuinely in a low mood. Something that, bearing in mind it’d been detached from its roots prior to undertaking it’s role as festive ornament in my living room, isn’t beyond the realms of possibility. I know I’d feel pretty peeved if my sources of food and water were permanently withdrawn for short term aesthetic gain over the festive period. Putting in motion my existence.
In my defence, though, at no juncture did I intend to cause trauma. Although the tree, who mitigating against me writing the word ‘tree’ fourteen times a paragraph I’ll call Derek, may argue that by purchasing a real yuletide shrub I was in full knowledge they’d be consequential suffering for the fir needled ornament.
In a packed courthouse, acting as prosecution counsel, Derek may advocate to a jury my peers, that by depriving him of his root my actions were a crime against nature. A horticultural felony undertaken by yours truly which had wantonly curtailed his life span.
This landmark case exposing me to hate mail from nature lovers from as far afield as Skipton tarn – If that exists. Tree huggers hypocritically send me diatribes penned on paper, demanding I resign as a Freemason. And if I wasn’t a Freemason (which I’m not), resign from my role as treasurer of the Stick Hoarders Association of Gainsborough (SHAG).
SHAG an affiliation formed for middle-aged men who hoard random pieces of wood for no other reason than a misguided belief it’ll come in handy one day. It’s chairperson Arthur Earache, the proud owner of 58 pine batons, 82 pieces of bamboo and 63 oak tree branches.
Earache who devised the association’s confusing motto of ‘Wood Would, Wouldn’t You’, a fella notorious in his village for eccentrically walking a baton of 2cm x 4cm balsa wood on a lead following his dog Lumber’s passing this June.
The Alsatian’s demise reputedly gaining column inches in the local parish newspaper after he became the first canine on record to perish by succumbing to woodworm…… It’s an improbable tale, but I endeavour not to rock the boat by questioning the legendary yarns validity at SHAG get togethers.
Quite clearly, when mentioning the tree was down at the commencement of this prose, I was referring to my removal all of Derek’s baubles and ornaments, prior to shifting the no longer required wood and fir pines into my garage.
Instead, I ended up pursuing a ridiculous riff about Derek the trees possible mental health issues….. It’s good to see my New Years resolution of cutting back on absurd prose within my blogs has started so swimmingly!