Carcasses of Christmas trees-past can be spotted with confounding regularity; some 79 days since JC’s b-day. For every daffodil, there is a desiccated Norwegian Spruce deposited on a lonely street corner or abandoned behind some random railings, as if they are the fauna equivalent of a drunken uncle that has over-stayed their welcome.
Or worse still is the Scots Pine that still sits outside its former residence, separated from the room they used to rule by an exterior wall and their owner’s unsentimental search for the next festive fix (John Lewis already sells Easter trees folks!). I’m sure the homeowners have given up all hope of these fossilised firs every being collected; the trick is to adhere to the council’s one and only collection date as if it was the second coming of the aforementioned JC, otherwise it’s the equivalent of expecting weapon’s grade plutonium to be picked up with the rest of your refuse!
Not sure there is a sadder seasonal comedown than the wizened corpses of Christmas trees which even the bin men don’t want to tangle with. I find myself wondering if they will still be hanging around next Noël – tortured twigs more at home in a post-nuclear landscape. Or perhaps some of the inhabitants of this city are labouring under the misapprehension that they will take root in the concrete. Now that truly would be a Christmas miracle!
Boat drinks (bauble-free!) trees...
