Bright. bright Christmas

Last year CleanSteve went up to the farm shop and chose our tree from their field, cut it down and brought it home. This year I was keen to take part too, and suggested we go up today before all the trees had gone. In the past we have sometimes left it late, and ended up with the what seems like the last tree in Gloucestershire.

The sun was high overhead, the sky a Provencal blue, the field a deep trench of Cotswold clay! Which of course meant that it was hard to shoot straight into the sun and keep one's footing! We found 'our tree' almost straight away, but pootled around a bit taking photos. None of them were any good, in my case. Then CleanSteve cut the tree with a handsaw, but again, no good photos!

Bomble is not taking to his new heated bed-box so far. He spent the night in bed with us last night, and clawed my head at 7.15. I think he is suspicious of it (the heated mat, not my head) and I've lost the expensive pheromone spray. The Christmas tree is in a bucket in the garden, where it will suffer the indignity of being sprayed by every single cat that thinks it owns our garden. Unfortunately it won't fit in the cabon, but we will bring it in for decoration next weekend.