Columnist Alun Newman: The Christmas tree is up!

It’s funny how things shift as we all plod through life.

There was a time when choosing a tree was a full family outing with multiple possible venues, there were even occasional expeditions into the forest to track down the official Newman Family Tree.

Nowadays enthusiasm and diary availability seem to be the deciding factors.

I still love having a real tree, but even that fire feels like it’s dimming a little.

This year it was pouring with rain when I went out with my daughter to buy one. Normally this would be a short-listing adventure that could easily stretch past an hour. Instead, we approached a luminous-jacketed member of staff who was drenched, freezing, and yet somehow still smiling with Christmas spirit.

We pointed at something wrapped in a white fish-net sort of cocoon, trusted that it would be fine, paid and went home. It was the fastest tree purchase of my life.

Once locked into the tree-holder, Mariah Carey was playing in the background and the reveal was surprisingly decent - it's a nice tree. Either we struck lucky or tree quality seems to be consistently good this year.

We have a set of conversations that repeat annually - first, we should buy new decorations when they go on sale? We never do, which is why we still have the metal bouncy snowman with no hands and an eccentric collection of baubles; second, we should get more fairy lights in the sale? We never do. This year our rope lights for the stairs lost about 50 percent of their glow. This was especially irritating because I had spent ages weaving them through the banister and spindles only to switch them on and discover that most of the lights weren’t twinkling.

I think I’m emotionally maturing, because it used to really bother me that every time I looked under the tree more needles had fallen. Last year hoovering beneath it caused even more needles to drop, so statistically it became the better choice to let them accumulate.

This year I feel more philosophical - if I’m foolish enough to bring a dead tree into my living room, I shouldn’t be remotely surprised that it continues to decompose. What was I expecting?

I did buy something in the sales months ago to add a touch of festive charm, some “Christmas in Small Drops of Oil for the Infuser”, the thing that you heat with a tealight. My hope was that it would fill the house with the scent of a winter wonderland and, combined with the tree, lights, and music, create a perfect seasonal symphony.

Unfortunately, I over-oiled it and, as one of my children put it: “Christmas is giving me a headache.” I had to agree; my eyes were streaming. Not from festive sentiment, but because it delivered a powerful chemical punch of cinnamon, orange peel, and pine cones straight to the face.