A CHRISTMAS TREE FOR ONE.

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In December 1880, Queen Charlotte, the German wife of George III, put up a Yew tree in the Queen’s Lodge in Windsor for a Christmas party.

“Charlotte, why is there a tree inside the house?” George III yelled.

“It’s something we do back in Germany. I thought, perhaps, it would be nice to introduce it to England.”

George III rolled his eyes. “Are you barking mad? The Englishman won’t allow trees in their homes!”

Forty years later, Queen Victoria’s husband, Albert, announced he would bring his home country tradition to England by having a fir tree in the house for Christmas. He had been quite bored recently and, therefore, quite irritating to Queen Victoria, so she was happy he had something to do.

“What a wonderful idea, Albert!” she said.

And every year after that, it was Albert’s job to set up the tree. In 1848, an illustration of the royal tree was printed in the press, and soon, every Englishman had a tree in their home at Christmas.

Most people can remember at least one decoration that hung on the tree in the home they grew up in. Our tree was in the living room, dressed with purple baubles and gold reindeers. I remember the sweet pine scent that would overwhelm the room. And the way the branches got in the way of the telly for anyone sitting on the far left of the sofa.

I haven’t bothered with a real Christmas tree in the last few years. Trees are for families, couples and kids. Not for thirty-somethings, living on their own.

It seemed bleak to have a proper Christmas tree for my pleasure only. I had this image of it glowing in the corner as I watched The Office with my baked potato on my lap. Maybe it would get so bad that I would grow attached to its presence in the room and say goodnight to it.

I would switch off its lights. “Good night, tree.” And leave the dark, silent room.

This year, I had a change of heart. I would get myself a proper Christmas tree, even if it was only for me.

On Sunday, I went to the Covered Market in Oxford, the home of the oldest piece of ham in the world. (It’s proudly displayed in a butcher’s window). In the centre of the market, below the floating White Rabbit, is the best florist in town, ‘The Garden of Oxford’.

Their Christmas trees were lined up, starting graciously tall and ending short and stout. I needed to carry the tree back home, so as elegant as the tall ones were, realistically, I would have to go for the plumper option. I lifted the shortest one to see if I was strong enough to carry it. Just about.

As I inspected its branches, a couple in their fifties came striding over. The man in a buttoned-up Barbour jacket went to the grandest tree of the bunch.

“How about this one, Cupcake?” he said to his partner.

The lady, or ‘Cupcake’, scanned the tree as if doing some mental photoshopping.

“Mmm. Maybe this one?” she said, gesturing to a tree at least three inches shorter.

The man inspected Cupcake’s tree, his tree, and then Cupcake’s face. This wasn’t a discussion.

“Yeah, alright then,” he muttered. He dragged the tree out and brought it into the shop.

While all this was happening, I hovered by my tree like a creep, unsure if we were allowed to take it into the shop or if we were expected to wait for someone to serve us. Thankfully, Barbour Jacket and Cupcake answered my question. I pulled out my chosen tree, like King Arthur, retrieving the sword from the stone. The flower shop girl cocooned it in a white net, and the journey home began.

If you want to attract attention to yourself, I highly recommend walking around with a tree. I felt like Father Christmas, spreading joy throughout the town. One elderly woman wrapped in a green scarf on her mobility scooter scooted past with a smile and said, “How Christmassy.”

Nobody needs apps. They just need to walk around with strange objects.

By the time I got to my apartment, I was ready to ‘de-tree.’ It seemed to have gained weight on the walk. Either that or my feeble arms were failing me. The needles kept pricking me too. Why did we pick the sharpest tree there was for this tradition?

I took one big breath before tackling the three flights of stairs, then dramatically piled into my flat and fell onto the sofa, where I watched an episode of The Office as I recovered from the excursion.

The art direction of the tree was influenced by the hints of orange in my rug. I probably should have played some Wham or put on The Holiday whilst I decorated it, but Jim and Pam had just got together, so…..

My holiday craftwork isn’t outstanding, so the tree didn’t take long to decorate. Like my Halloween pumpkins, it was pretty… basic. The lights were a little wonky, and the baubles hung without real thought. There was one final thing to do, and that was to put the angel on top. I didn’t have an angel. I had something better. I had Mr. Darcy.

One of the best things about having your own tree is that you can decorate it exactly how you like without being questioned. (Even if that tree ornament is a felt version of Mr. Darcy from Etsy).

“Why is a tiny man in a suit hanging off our tree?”

“It’s not just any man, Steven, it’s Mr. Darcy.”

“Was he like, one of the three kings or something?”

But there was no Steven, so this conversation did not take place, and Mr. Darcy stayed on the tree without question.

Later that evening, I settled on my sofa. Baked potato on my lap. The Office on the telly. It could have been any old evening, except now I have a glowing tree in the corner – all thanks to Queen Charlotte.