Dan Morris: An embarrassing end to tree heroics

When last I checked in with you properly dear readers, I had been well and truly bitten by the early-Christmas bug. Shocking and unprecedented as this was, I had half expected the effect to have died down by now. Amazingly it has not, and I am still bringing festive cheer to my nearest and dearest on a daily basis like some great and bearded sugarplum fairy.

Indisputably the earliest that I have ever done so in all my livelong days, the tree went up (bish, bash, bosh) on November 28. This was along with a rather artistic outdoor lighting display surprisingly delicately put together by my beloved (I’ll pay for that one later…).

The tree however was all mine to sort, though this was not through any sort of selfless gesture of helpfulness and glad tidings on my part. No, no. Frankly ladies and gentlemen, this was nothing less than me letting the control freak extraordinaire that lurks beneath my chilled and harmonious exterior out to play. It’s not a side of my personality I indulge very often (those friends who disagree can contact me at exactly the appointed hour to discuss), but when it comes to that most magnificent centrepiece of festive foliage, perfection is paramount, and Field Marshall Morris comes home to roost.

That’s right. I’m that guy. Each bauble has its own specific spot, lights must neither be to shallow on the branches nor too deep, and if two decorations of any one shade are anywhere close to touching I shall smite ye with fire from my eyes. The really weird thing is, if I’m not at all involved in the adornment of our fine fake Nordmann Fir, I really don’t give a monkey’s what it looks like. But once my input is solicited, I’m embarrassed to admit that it’s my way or the highway. As such, my other half has learned that the best way to handle the situation each year and avoid any justifiable bloodshed she may be tempted to commit is to take the tree in turns. She takes the even years, I take the odds, and the peace of the household is preserved.

Until this year of course, when I needed help in quite a big way...

Things were going well – everything was out of the box, lights tested, glittering things glistening, and the pear tree awaiting the proverbial partridge. Our ‘plastic fantastic’ tree is easily put together in three stages, and even for Mr D ‘Not-as-in-DIY...Do-me-a-favour’ Morris, assembly was a doddle. Fanning out the branches and creating a symmetrical-but-not-too-symmetrical shape was a calm stage in the proceedings, as was figuring out the tree’s exact positioning in our modest abode. But then came the lights...

Always the most important and critical junction of Christmas tree adornment, the attentiveness and precision with which the lights are wrapped round and placed can, in terms of your tree’s aesthetics, be the difference between masterpiece and massacre. Just like momma taught me, I’ve always taken my time with the tree twinklers, making sure they’re all well-spaced and their depth is spot on. This year I was in the zone, weaving a web of fairy lighting throughout our tree’s branches with such deft, dramatic and fast-fingered skill that I was beginning to resemble the love child of Rumpelstiltskin and Jimmy Page. Undoubtedly I was on fire, showing off to an empty room and delighting in the fact that not only was I the Da Vinci of the deccies, but also the fastest rope light slinger in the west. And then, all of sudden, this cowboy found himself well and truly caught in his own lasso... almost, indeed, literally.

In my enthusiasm, overzealousness and outright arrogance I had made the fatal flaw of many a crimbo craftsman, and while wrapping the tree in its illuminated adornments, I had managed to ‘Empire Strikes Back’ myself directly to it. Tethered to the tree in a prickly and torturous embrace, I was unable to escape the clutches of the string of lights that, through my own absurd hubris, I had wound with next to no slack (I would never need to re-adjust my work, naturally) and had unwittingly allowed to tighten three times around my back, eventually pinning me to my beloved creation.

The situation was beyond ridiculous. I was unable to reach the socket on the wall to simply unplug the lights and unwind them that way, and it seemed that every time I tried to loosen the light rope from the tree itself, it simply pulled me to it all the tighter. Like some Harry-Houdini-meets-George-Michael-à-la-Last-Christmas, this festive escape artist was in the need of a glamourous assistant – the very same one whose help he had shunned in the first place.

I hollered for assistance, fully prepared to fall on my sword. But as my betrothed was outside, diligently working on her own creation, no response came. Just as I had resigned myself to attempting a drastic method of escape I remembered from the movie Saw, my knight in Christmas armour appeared and rescued me from the now terribly tangled prison.

Quite justly however, this was not before putting the kettle on, downing half a cup of Joe, and imbibing my idiotic misfortune with more than a few spoons full of laughter.

The moral of the story is probably one of the most simple from any tale ever told. Don’t be a prat – you always reap what you sow, and karma’s gonna’ get you.

Heed my warning guys and gals, and remember, the tree is a team sport. I’m sure this realisation of mine will be judged by my other half as ‘very convenient indeed’ seeing as in less than a month it will be time for ‘us’ to pack it all away. Merry Christmas folks! Let’s hope she lets me live to see it!