So I know a lot of ‘blended’ families aren’t all ho ho ho but luckily, from their first well-timed meeting on the doorstep a few Christmas Eves ago like a Richard Curtis film scene, the four boys we have between us all get along jolly well.
The blended Crimbo tree, however… oh dear lord. Past years have been a tragic tinselled tangle of mismatched ancient decorations because, you know… tradition. And it’s always so heartwarming as the sprogs gasp with great festive joy, ‘oh, not that lame old shit again’ or, my personal favourite, ‘for God’s sake Mum, what’s actually wrong with you?’ as they behold the beauty of 20-year-old bits of curled up, mangled foil with their name spelt wrong on the back.
I’m not really sure what constitutes a good tree but this one’s got balls, I’ll give it that. The Greek God’s angel has taken precedence, the smug cow. Mine looks rumpled if relieved to have been retired after years of being strapped to the tree like a hostage. It’s a great comfort that her successor seems to be wearing handcuffs though. A new adorable tradition in the making.
Merry Christmas then…