Almost too late ...

This is where we go to buy our Christmas tree, where we have bought them for the past 16 years. Before that we went to a place in woodland nearer home, and chose them from where they lay cut on the grass, and loaded them into our car/on top of the car completely unbound. Both places were and are run by the Forestry Commission, and despite the rather basic wooden shed with the wrapping machine thingy outside there's a pleasant atmosphere and you're offered coffee and mince pies when you go to pay.

We knew we were late this year; although I never put them up until the week before Christmas I often manage to buy the tree a bit earlier and keep it in the shed. But this year life got on top of us and this was it. We saw from the paper that the FC office  at Glenbranter would be selling trees until this Sunday and off we drove. 

There were three trees left.

Not only were there three trees, they were all 7 feet tall. There is no way we ageing not-very-big-people can cope with a tree that size any more - we can't even lift one into position. We were about to leave, thinking dark thoughts about a wee expedition up a glen with a saw, when I thought of the forester with his saw, his long-handled loppers - and told him to cut the bottom off the best-shaped of the remaining trees. 

So now our tree is up, and it's the usual size, and I'm quite pleased with the whole deal. But I'm not pleased that Christmas seems to have begun, right enough, at the beginning of December. No wonder social media is full of people rejoicing about having taken down their tree on Boxing Day - they must have been sweeping up  needles over Christmas. 

What's more, I managed to get a walk up the hillside after we'd finished paying and chatting, and later I iced my cake before I decorated the tree. I was able as I did so to analyse Jeremy Corbyn's lip movements (silly woman vs silly people, anyone?) and tidy up the mess afterwards.

And the Brexit bourach just goes on growing ...