I call it the Biennial in our house: 2024, the Christmas tree returns to our living room after a two-year absence. I’m no Scrooge. I’m one of those people who goes big on Christmas. I can quote The Muppet Christmas Carol. I love pigs in blankets. I once chartered a Routemaster to drive through central London so my pals and I could admire the lights.
But I can only face having a tree once every two years because it feels somewhat ghoulish dressing a dead tree up, only to watch it slowly drop its needles before unceremoniously dumping it on the pavement several weeks later. We have to move Christopher Figgins, our five-foot fiddle-leaf fig plant, who is fussy at the best of times, down a flight of stairs to make room for it. Somehow, I’m always the person who decorates and un-decorates it. They’re not cheap.
