I know it’s an obvious one – indulge me and I promise to be more creative in the next few days – but I love it.
I love the ritual each year of going out to a big barn on a country estate near here where they grow the trees, there’s a log fire and the same man tells us what a lovely tree we’ve chosen and carries it to the car.
I love the needles that sprinkle over the car seat and leave a trail into the house.
I love the rigmarole of trying to get the tree to stand straight and decorating it with things that tell the story of Christmases gone by – a clay hedgehog my son made when he was 3, the star I can remember agonising over because I wanted a stylish one.
I love the fact that every year I get one with roots and naively hope that I may be able to plant it out and make it last til next year.
I love the smell, bringing the outdoors indoors.
And I love the fact that my 7 year old says ‘Can’t we just get a plastic one so we don’t have to do this every year?’