Christmassy atmosphere


Oh, the shame! Our new housemate asked falteringly whether it would be ok to get a Christmas tree for the house. Looks of astonishment were wiped off fast, replaced by horror that we’d been busted for being more bleak midwinter than merrie gentlemen. I haven’t had a Christmas tree since I were a nipper – simply because I couldn’t be arsed, and Housemate 2 is the same. But we’re bonding with the newbie who has only been in for a week. What a great idea! we carolled. Brilliant. So off we trooped to gaze at trees on a selection of garage forecourts before finally plumping for young man whose undeniable cuteness was almost completely offset by a heavily patterned fleece onesie.

Up yon spruce turned a couple of hours later in the company of another good-looking young swain, by which time I had already elbowed my way into Poundstretcher to pore over tinsel and finger the baubles. Oh-well-since-I’m-here, this also seemed like a good time to stock up on shampoo, but as I stared at the toppling ziggurats of stock and tried to diagnose my hair (flyaway? Stressed? Kinks out over my ears?), I gradually became aware that the scent of Christmas is not really spruce and cinnamon. The scent of Christmas is in fact half-digested drink. The tube, the supermarket, Poundstretcher, the bank – everywhere this year seems to be scented by someone struggling to metabolise a skinful. Mind you, as I myself am standing at the top of a week of nights out, maybe I shouldn’t be so, er, sniffy.


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