This year, instead of buying a cut tree and feeling more depressed each day by its slow demise, needle by needle, until all was left was a scratchy corpse to be hauled outside and dumped on the woodpile, we bought a tree in a pot. It was a good quality tree which cost a fair bit, but we rationalised that this would be good; one less tree thrown away, and in a few years we would have a happy little forest out on the piece of land next to the railway where it is sadly empty.
The tree duly survived, thrived even and after being stripped of festive stuff, we planted it.
Each dog walking day I've smiled at it and thought what an excellent idea it was, until . . . today when some ****** dug it up!
I stood in the drizzle staring at the space for a while thinking how mean it was, and how odd as we are (thankfully) many months away from the red and gold madness.
Oh, well, we'll do it again: a much more satisfactory tree solution, avoiding also the dreaded pot, stones, sand, wobbly tree and swearing. And I'll plane the next one IN the garden.