By: Blonde Two
On Sunday Blonde One and I took our annual pilgrimage up to Dartmoor to visit and adorn The Dartmoor Christmas Tree (Tree to his many friends). We have been doing this for so long now that neither of us could work out when we first started.
There was Tree’s year of the snow.
There was Tree’s year of the terrible chopping.
There was Tree’s year of the bauble
There was Tree’s year of the umbrella
I’m not sure how many times you have to do something before it becomes a tradition, the concept seems to be a complicated one and Google is no help whatsoever. Seven seems like a good number to me, nice and round and with all sorts of natural and supernatural connotations. It is a good number for peas, roast potatoes, pairs of walking boots, camping stoves, packets of crisps and dwarves (but maybe not angels).
You will be pleased to hear that I am going to christen this year Tree’s year of the growing because he has done such excellent growing this year that there is now no sign of any tree stump induced chopping whatsoever. He is, in fact, in better shape than he was before the chopping.
There is a personal metaphor there I am sure.