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Description
ahhhhhhhhhh. time for tree decoration.
the tree in question has about three tops and a circumference of about sixteen feet, courtesy of my father's amazing yearly ability to select the tree which was accidentally given three times more growth hormone than all the other ones in the garden centre. We move couches and take all the videos upstairs. Then i stand in the kitchen supporting the tree in an intimate and prickly embrace, and my father hacks off the top two feet of the poor thing with our one and only kitchen knife.
once it is installed in our living room we get the boxes out of the cupboard over the upstairs water heater, where they have been slowly cooking for the last year. it soon becomes apparent that the 'cinnamon allspice' scent brooms that we were given last christmas were made of more potent stuff than we suspected. they have eaten through their plastic packaging and melted the red heart baubles they were packed with into strange shapes. we wrap the brooms in five bags and bury them deep in the kitchen bin.
lights go on first. we unpack them, and by some miracle there is no tangle in either set. my father removes the entire contents of the cupboard under the stairs in order to find the adapter which allows us to plug our american jalepeno pepper tree lights into a transformer and then into the power extension. the adapter is found, right at the back of said cupboard, first set goes on without a hitch. entire flanagan family (all three of them) stands back to admire effect.
'Is it just me,' my mother says, 'or do they look very bright?'
'They look very bright.' i say, shielding my eyes. The peppers, usually a soft red, are a brilliant flamingo pink.
'Well, that's impossible.' my father approaches the tree confidently. 'The only reason they'd be brighter is if they were running without the transformer, which means they'd be running on twice the voltage, and they'd all blowmyGOD.'
the lights are turned off, the transformer put in. next, the second set of lights refuses to work. i check all the bulbs, and when this doesn't help, i replace them one by one with our one spare bulb. both my parents watch as i work all the way round.
'Last chance.' i say, plugging the last bulb in. the bottom set comes on. the top set goes off.
my father gets down and starts wiggling the three layers of plugs around. the lights go on and off. the ancient retired home guard guy next door sees the sporadic flashes through the curtains and dives for his old service morse code book and a pencil.
my father discovers that the lights work fine as long as he is kneeling down and holding the plug.
after a heated discussion, he slowly gets up and backs away. both sets of lights stay on.
'Don't even breathe.' he hisses to us.
the phone rings in the kitchen. both sets of lights go out, and my father screams like a girl.
i escape the living room to answer it. the kitchen has now aquired a smog of corrosive cinnamon allspice scent that makes me start to gag.
'Gggghlo?' i manage.
it is my aunt in rickmansworth, whose sense of timing seems to get better every year. while she tells me about her latest motorbike adventures, i watch my parents, having abandoned the lights, begin to unpack the nativity set. the living room rapidly fills up with bits of wadding and last year's newspapers, intended to stop the three wise men chipping each other's noses off while in the box. unfortunately, the unwrapping process begins to fray my father's patience. he turns the box on its side and shakes it.
'...And there was this café full of the most amazing blokes, you wouldn't believe the stuff they had on the walls.' my aunt continues happily, as it starts to rain ceramic sheep and plastic straw. i clamp the phone to my ear and help my parents scramble around picking up figures.
'Well, absolutely.' i say. this is usually a safe bet with my aunt. 'Dad wants to talk to you.'
'Who the hell is it?' yells my father, picking straw out of his hair.
'I can't find the baby.' says my mother, peering under the coffee table.
meanwhile, the TV is contributing happy christmas music to the proceedings, courtesy of Xmas Strictly Come Dancing. in the background of my aunt's house, i can hear distant revving. i watch my tiny mother trying to lift the sofa, which is fully three times her size.
'Is everyone all right over there?' my aunt asks.
'Oh, we're all fine.' i say, reassuringly.
'I've found Jesus.' my mother screams, from somewhere behind/under the sofa.
'Got to go.' i hang up just in time to whisk a misshapen cow-thing out from under my father's foot.
after this, things calm down a little. we put all the ornaments onto the tree, including the homemade salt dough ones, which immediately weigh the branches they are inflicted on to the floor. the fat little stuffed christmas angel is speared onto the top branch, and my mother makes pasta with tomatoes which, strangely, tastes strongly of pine resin.
three hours after we first began, the tree is finished and looks quite pretty. the living room, however, is trashed. sensing that a tidy-up is imminent, i nick a cherry candy cane off the tree and escape upstairs to write.
'Erin?' my father yells from the distant living room.
'Yes.'
'That Molina bloke you keep going on about.'
'What?' i am privately amazed that he got the name right this time. previous efforts have included Moranis, Murray, and, memorably, Malkovich.
'He's on the telly.'
i leap from my chair, hurdle across my room, and vault down the stairs four at a time, arriving in front of the TV in a breathless kneeslide that bounces the angel off the tree and into the fruit bowl.
my father has excelled himself. it is Ricky Gervais.

Description
ahhhhhhhhhh. time for tree decoration.
the tree in question has about three tops and a circumference of about sixteen feet, courtesy of my father's amazing yearly ability to select the tree which was accidentally given three times more growth hormone than all the other ones in the garden centre. We move couches and take all the videos upstairs. Then i stand in the kitchen supporting the tree in an intimate and prickly embrace, and my father hacks off the top two feet of the poor thing with our one and only kitchen knife.
once it is installed in our living room we get the boxes out of the cupboard over the upstairs water heater, where they have been slowly cooking for the last year. it soon becomes apparent that the 'cinnamon allspice' scent brooms that we were given last christmas were made of more potent stuff than we suspected. they have eaten through their plastic packaging and melted the red heart baubles they were packed with into strange shapes. we wrap the brooms in five bags and bury them deep in the kitchen bin.
lights go on first. we unpack them, and by some miracle there is no tangle in either set. my father removes the entire contents of the cupboard under the stairs in order to find the adapter which allows us to plug our american jalepeno pepper tree lights into a transformer and then into the power extension. the adapter is found, right at the back of said cupboard, first set goes on without a hitch. entire flanagan family (all three of them) stands back to admire effect.
'Is it just me,' my mother says, 'or do they look very bright?'
'They look very bright.' i say, shielding my eyes. The peppers, usually a soft red, are a brilliant flamingo pink.
'Well, that's impossible.' my father approaches the tree confidently. 'The only reason they'd be brighter is if they were running without the transformer, which means they'd be running on twice the voltage, and they'd all blowmyGOD.'
the lights are turned off, the transformer put in. next, the second set of lights refuses to work. i check all the bulbs, and when this doesn't help, i replace them one by one with our one spare bulb. both my parents watch as i work all the way round.
'Last chance.' i say, plugging the last bulb in. the bottom set comes on. the top set goes off.
my father gets down and starts wiggling the three layers of plugs around. the lights go on and off. the ancient retired home guard guy next door sees the sporadic flashes through the curtains and dives for his old service morse code book and a pencil.
my father discovers that the lights work fine as long as he is kneeling down and holding the plug.
after a heated discussion, he slowly gets up and backs away. both sets of lights stay on.
'Don't even breathe.' he hisses to us.
the phone rings in the kitchen. both sets of lights go out, and my father screams like a girl.
i escape the living room to answer it. the kitchen has now aquired a smog of corrosive cinnamon allspice scent that makes me start to gag.
'Gggghlo?' i manage.
it is my aunt in rickmansworth, whose sense of timing seems to get better every year. while she tells me about her latest motorbike adventures, i watch my parents, having abandoned the lights, begin to unpack the nativity set. the living room rapidly fills up with bits of wadding and last year's newspapers, intended to stop the three wise men chipping each other's noses off while in the box. unfortunately, the unwrapping process begins to fray my father's patience. he turns the box on its side and shakes it.
'...And there was this café full of the most amazing blokes, you wouldn't believe the stuff they had on the walls.' my aunt continues happily, as it starts to rain ceramic sheep and plastic straw. i clamp the phone to my ear and help my parents scramble around picking up figures.
'Well, absolutely.' i say. this is usually a safe bet with my aunt. 'Dad wants to talk to you.'
'Who the hell is it?' yells my father, picking straw out of his hair.
'I can't find the baby.' says my mother, peering under the coffee table.
meanwhile, the TV is contributing happy christmas music to the proceedings, courtesy of Xmas Strictly Come Dancing. in the background of my aunt's house, i can hear distant revving. i watch my tiny mother trying to lift the sofa, which is fully three times her size.
'Is everyone all right over there?' my aunt asks.
'Oh, we're all fine.' i say, reassuringly.
'I've found Jesus.' my mother screams, from somewhere behind/under the sofa.
'Got to go.' i hang up just in time to whisk a misshapen cow-thing out from under my father's foot.
after this, things calm down a little. we put all the ornaments onto the tree, including the homemade salt dough ones, which immediately weigh the branches they are inflicted on to the floor. the fat little stuffed christmas angel is speared onto the top branch, and my mother makes pasta with tomatoes which, strangely, tastes strongly of pine resin.
three hours after we first began, the tree is finished and looks quite pretty. the living room, however, is trashed. sensing that a tidy-up is imminent, i nick a cherry candy cane off the tree and escape upstairs to write.
'Erin?' my father yells from the distant living room.
'Yes.'
'That Molina bloke you keep going on about.'
'What?' i am privately amazed that he got the name right this time. previous efforts have included Moranis, Murray, and, memorably, Malkovich.
'He's on the telly.'
i leap from my chair, hurdle across my room, and vault down the stairs four at a time, arriving in front of the TV in a breathless kneeslide that bounces the angel off the tree and into the fruit bowl.
my father has excelled himself. it is Ricky Gervais.