The men who delivered my tree were the absolute heads off the Wet Bandits from Home Alone

My Christmas tree arrives today. For the past few years I’ve thrown money at the problem and paid one of those companies who come and set it up for you, lend you the tree stand and then come back to collect it in January when the pine needles are holding on by a wing and a prayer. Much like all of us come January, in fairness. There’s also lots of talk about recycling and replanting to make you feel better about the whole transaction.

Last year, the men who delivered my tree were lightly costumed – boiler suits and festive hats if I remember correctly. They were the absolute heads off the Wet Bandits, the pair of bungling burglars from Home Alone. In temperament they were nothing like criminals though and indeed were so lovely that when they left their dustpan and brush behind in my house I fretted for hours about their deliveries for the rest of the day. A performative brush of the carpet is all part of the service. I hoped that in the next house the Christmas spirit would prevail and they’d be let use the Dyson (my Dyson dupe is demonstrably rubbish versus the pine needles, but luckily the Nordmann Fir I order doesn’t drop too many).

Of all the Christmas trees I’ve known in my life I am quite pleased with the set up I’ve curated after years of indifference and half-hearted plastic two-footers on the sideboard. I’ve engaged in the extremely woman-in-her-20s-and-30s exercise of collecting tree ornaments from places I’ve visited, including a delicate Empire State Building and a flip flop from Puerto Rico. I’ve amassed a selection of “trending” decorations – your avocados, your alpacas, your hot dogs. I have one from Christmas 2020 which includes an apt expletive, given the “meaningful” Covid yuletide we had that year. I have some treasured gifts from friends. And I have some small wooden figures, favourites of my Dad’s when he was alive and stolen from the collection on the tree down home.

My childhood Christmas trees were things of wonder. Always “real” and nearly knocking you out with the pong of pine. Trees don’t really smell of anything anymore because while the Nordmanns are better at hanging onto their needles, they don’t hold a candle to ye olde Norway Spruce when it comes to scent. I used to go with my Dad to Johnstown Garden Centre to get the tree and then spend hours perfecting the placement of ornaments, very few of which matched but all had a special place among the branches.

I’d never wear my big straw hat on the streets of Dublin. Someone would call me JR Ewing

---

I’m all for AI as long as I can have a robot to do all the housework

---

Emer McLysaght: The ‘cry laughing’ emoji has been my nemesis for as long as I can remember

---

The eight people you meet in the posh emergency department, including the minor sports-adjacent celebrity

---

My aunt and uncle’s Christmas tree lights will stay with me forever. We’d travel to their house on St Stephen’s Day and I’d spend hours inspecting their decorations by the roaring fire. The bulbs were housed in a string of tiny carriages and gas lamps. When I Google them now I see they’re very sought-after and “vintage” but I suppose if Christmas memories don’t make you feel ancient, what will?

When I travelled to Cambodia on St Stephen’s Day a few years back I didn’t expect there to be a Christmas tree on the remote island “resort” we ended up at. “Resort” conjures images of luxury and cocktails in coconuts, but this place had more of a “sometimes we have electricity” vibe. The Christmas tree in question was more of a palm tree with some tinsel wrapped around it, but I loved the festive effort so far from home.

Travelling at Christmas is always bittersweet, and with plans to spend my first full Christmas abroad and away from family this year, I’m hoping the giant tree at New York’s Rockefeller Centre will live up to expectations. I originally scheduled my own tree arrival for December 8th, the traditional day of decorating and reminiscing about culchies coming up to the big smoke to sweat around Clerys in their good coats. When I thought about the amount of time I’d get to spend with my tree and the money I’d paid for it I moved the delivery forward to today so I could enjoy maximum festive cheer, god dammit.

I have the dustpan and brush ready to dutifully return and I’ve only purchased a restrained three new decorations, including a glittery peach. Fruit seems very in this year. I’m prepared for the awkward chat while the installation is completed. I’ll be quick to reassure the Wet Bandits that the cat is more interested in drinking the water from the base than scaling the tree, and when they’re gone and the lights are on I’ll have a small cry remembering all the trees past and those yet to come.