Reader, I am attracted to a Norwegian

He is very tall, handsome and strong, and every time I look at him, I melt.

I love him so much that I have spent the last 24-hours feeding and watering him and playing with his impressive Norwegian frame in the hope that he will remain a solid fixture – at least until January.

I am besotted with an 8ft, Norwegian Christmas Tree. He is the best Christmas tree I have ever had.

I have spent the last few days adorning him with lights and jewels, and really, a crown would suit him better than the felt angel currently perching on his head.

I say ‘he’ because my tree is obviously a boy - he touches the ceiling and is taking over the whole of the room. Oh, how I swoon over those boughs.

I don’t usually pick up my tree until the very possible last moment because I still want to preserve something of the olden days when families decorated their tree on Christmas Eve, sang carols and lit candles.

I have tried to stand strong amid the tide of Christmas craziness that begins at the end of the summer, but I have been stung too many times to count in what usually becomes The Great Christmas Tree debacle – using a whole tank of petrol to drive to 35 different places to find one of the last remaining trees and then paying huge sums of cash for the runt of the pine forest.

Bad will becomes rampant – always mine.

So this year, I went early to a handpicked venue just the other side of the Forest, where I spotted the tall Scandinavian I have been longing for and cried as I handed over my cash (it was 45 quid) to the ruddy-faced farmer.

This year was different, not only because I have not had to contend with the gaudy baubles and trance inducing lights of LOML (my ex), but also because my dad, who is still living with us, is joining our festivities.

We held our 1890s re-enactment (admittedly it turned into more of a Chas and Dave-style sing-a-long) the day we got the tree.

Dad was clutching his homemade tree holder, which looks a bit like a crucifix.

But he had a great big smile on his face as he started singing loudly, accompanied by the dog, while hanging the decorations on the bushy branches.

Dad moved in for “two weeks” in July. Dad is still here. I wonder if he will be a permanent fixture? Probably.

It’s OK. He is the first and only true LOML.

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