Wednesday December 20, 2006
I was called up to admire the Christmas tree, all gossied up and ready for inspection.
“It looks lovely,” I said. “You’ve done a great job as always. Only one small snag.”
“Oh? What’s that, then?” he asked, pretending to bristle.
“You forgot to put the angel on top.”
“Didn’t forget. Couldn’t find it in the box. It must have got lost in the move.”
“I bet it didn’t. I bet you accidentally on purpose forgot to pack it. You’ve always hated that angel.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Did. I remember distinctly… oh, wait a minute. Isn’t that the decoration I trod on when we stripped the tree up in Lincolnshire?”
“Yes. You’re right. See? It wasn’t me.”
“No. It was me. I apologise humbly and beg your pardon.”
“I should think so, too. Now you can make me a nice cup of tea as compensation.”
“Just so long as I can buy a replacement angel next time I’m out.”
“If you must. Can’t see the attraction for angels myself. I’d rather have a star.”
“I’ve always had an angel on the tree, right back into the dim and dark days of World War Two. It’s a tradition.”
“You always trot out the dim and dark days of World War Two when you want to win an argument.”
“Serves you right. You’re angel-ist, that’s what you are.”
“Oh, go and make that tea. We’ll see if we can’t find a new angel tomorrow. Or the day after if the fog lifts in the morning and we can go to IKEA after all.”
Where’s the angel gone?