W

We

had

a tree

that lived

in our garden

for most of the

year. And when it

was time, my Dad dug

it up carefully, so as not

to damage the fragile roots.

He ceremoniously set it in a big

clay pot, ballasted with stones and

packed round with soil, and placed it in

a sort of giant terracotta saucer, to catch the

water, he said, so it would stay alive for next year.

My brother and I festooned it with tinsel and baubles, and

Dad added a string of fairy lights, checking each bulb to ensure

it was securely screwed into its holder, and when he switched them

on, our mouths and eyes gaped wide with wonder at the magical display.

Every day it would shed a layer of pine needles on the carpet, and we were

scared it might be dying. But Mum said it was ok and dribbled water onto the soil

for

it to

drink.

She vacuumed them up each morning, except

Christmas morning, because there was

a tantalising horde of gifts strewn

round the base of the tree.