Its tiny filament was burnt black, so Danny replaced it with another then reached over to the skirting board and threw the switch. The room was instantly bathed in the soft glow of decorative lights and he scrambled to his feet to admire his handiwork. All he had to do now was hang a few baubles, put the fairy on top, then vacuum the million bloody needles that had fallen off while he fixed the stupid lights. A real tree? A real pain the in arse, more like. Danny recalled a drunken Christmas a few years ago, staggering out of the King’s Head and seeing the van parked outside, crammed with rows of genuine fir Christmas trees. He’d parted with a few quid then waltzed it across the estate, singing merrily. The lift in his block was busted, of course, and by the time he had reached Dad’s flat the tree was almost naked, a trail of dead needles leading from the front door back down the stairs. He remembered his Dad laughing as he fetched the broom, the valiant attempt they both made to decorate the sorry-looking tree as it stood virtually naked in the living room.
