Cycling in the bitter cold to work this morning, I was confronted with the sight of tens of discarded Christmas trees lining the pavements. They looked somewhat forlorn, shedding their needles while still wearing their tinselly finery - rather like a woman on the lash, slumped in the gutter vomiting with smeared make-up and torn stockings.* It strikes me as strange that the Dutch are so quick to bin these trees; normally, they are keen to practice the local art of kerbside recycling - picking out serviceable items from the rubbish. I've seen books and records, scratched cupboards, fuseless appliances, and even sodden mattresses being collected by the avaricious Cloggies, strapping the items on to their bikes before wobbling off with their treasure. I was somewhat surprised to see that the old bin I placed out this morning hadn't been picked up by the time I had got my bags together and bike out; true, the top didn't shut properly and it had a large dent in it from the time a few days earlier when I'd drop-kicked it across the kitchen in a fit of pique, but it should have appealed to somebody.
By the way, was mine the only primary school in the 1970s that made its pupils sing "O Christmas Tree" to the tune of the Communist anthem, "The people's flag"? (Or did the Christmas tree hymn come first, and it was those damn Ruskies that co-opted the tune?)
I'm watching: CSI: Original Flava, Season 5
I'm reading: The Remains Of The Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro
I'm listening to Employment by the Kaiser Chiefs
I made: fudge, marmalade cake, and chocolate cake for our party
I'm making: Nigel's pumpkin and red lentil soup for dinner, only with sweet potato instead of pumpkin.
*This is what happens when you read "fine" literature before blogging.
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