I wake up at the Pavillon hotel in Margaux. Theoretically I should be suffering a mild hangover, but the pedigree of last night’s fermented grape juice ensures that my body is lenient in punishment for such wanton libation. I catch the flight back to Gatwick, catch the train back to Guildford where I write up tasting notes and barely get past my home’s front porch, since I am immediately turned round and despatched to “Secrets” garden centre to buy a Xmas tree in order for the Festive season to officially start. Unfortunately, most organized families have already bought their trees, so I am left with the dregs: deformed and stunted, lop-sided and gangly. I manage to buy one that is too bushy, but attack it with seccateurs and sculpt it into some kind of symmetrical shape before installing it in the living room, where it takes up around 45% of the floor space.
I switch on the fairy lights and my daughters/helpers squeal with delight. I officially declare Christmas open. Now I just gotta buy some presents.
By 11.30pm, I count around 137 pine needles already littering the floor.
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