TALES of woe involving prickly issues dominate the conversation of single women in January. For there is no greater burden of singlehood than going to the dump to recycle your own Christmas tree.
I haven't had a tree this year, but sagas from several friends brought back those days. As one who has previously had her mouth full of pine needles, I feel fully equipped to offer the Single Girl's Guide to Recycling the Christmas Tree. Snip it out
and keep it until next year (unless you are willing and able to follow point 10).
1) Begin by accepting that disposal of your used Yule tree exposes your single status. If there's one thing in life that is men's work, it's going to the dump. It offers endless jokes about bowel movements. And the chance to use the car on a Sunday afternoon in an activity which means it really does need cleaning afterwards.
2) Enjoy taking the tree down. This is as much fun as it gets. Shout "timber" as you yank your tree from its base and it slumps on to your floorboards.
3) Take notes as you get the tree out of your flat. Dragging it along floorboards, banging it down the stairs and persuading it into the boot are essential skills should you ever wish to murder anyone. Like whoever sold you the tree saying it had good needle retention.
4) Don't fret about what to wear to the dump. It is a world without fashion. Just dress warmly. Chances are the tree was too big for your boot, so you had to heave it on to the back seat. Its trunk is probably protruding 2ft from your wound-down side window, allowing a Nordic wind in. The fir may feel at home; you won't.
5) Do not worry about arriving at the dump, being unable to spot where the Christmas trees go, and mistakenly adding your festive fir to the battery recycling bank. There will be a skip already filled to the brim, and beyond, with trees.
6) Just leave the tree and scarper. Yes, really. Do not attempt to add it to the pile on the skip. Four years ago, I took a run up and threw my tree, javelin-style, on to this heap of conifers. It plunged back down, battered me in the face and that was the point when I had a mouth full of needles. And some up my nose. Plus a branch in my eye, which I maintain is the reason I was crying.
7) Do engage the workers at the dump in conversation. One cleansing operative came over as I lay winded beneath foliage. Initially he was firm. "I'm not supposed to offer assistance to dumpers." He softened when I wheezed: "Throw away the rule book. Or bloody recycle it. There's the paper bank." Stig of the Dump turned into a demi-god and chucked my tree skip-top.
8) Accept that your flat is now the venue for a mighty clash: Needles v Vacuum cleaner. The needles will win.
9) On the first diary page of December 2008, make an emphatic note to buy a fibre-optic tree.
10) Or cynically accept dates in the run-up to next Christmas and develop a relationship so you have a man to recycle the tree. Anyone will do. The only pricks that cannot be borne are the ones underfoot throughout January.
You could get a dose of the punsIN THE hubbub over norovirus, another bug sweeping Britain has been overlooked. Let's call it a pun-demic. There's Plane Food, Gordon Ramsay's soon-to-be-opened restaurant at Heathrow. And the Duke of Uke – a ukulele shop I passed yesterday. Till recently, this awful strain of strained humour was contained within the sealed-off area of hairdressers and tanning salons (where conditions have clearly worsened, following reports of an Anonymousse and a sunbed shop called Ten Tan Tessie, whose owner – presumably christened Tessa – has Britain's most acute case). How come it is spreading? And might the government divert cash for infection control? It's important stuff, as this pun-demic may be why the retail sector is so down after Christmas. It's contracted by shop owners, but it's the customers who feel quite sick.
&149 THE world's smallest, cheapest car is making its debut at the Delhi Auto Expo. The Indian vehicle will cost one lakh – 100,000 rupees, or just short of £1,300 – and is aimed at the country's scooter riders, who've been unable to afford a car till now.
Aside from cost, its cheap appeal is its niftiness. Like all Indians, it will run quickly through the system; though, in this case, the road system rather than one's own. Let's hope the engine is as well-oiled as its marketing machine, for speculation about the name of the new car has gripped India. Some predicted it would be known as a Zing, others a Miracle. One thing's certain: if it's small, it won't be called a Korma.
Equity proves a model unionMORE fashion models are joining the union Equity. Ah, the difficulties they must face demonstrating. If models march, it will turn into a mass strut. When they reach the end of the street, they will pout, pivot and then collide with their fellow protesters. And if they form a picket line, no-one will see it.
Anyway, what are they complaining about? Slender wages? You work a size zero industry, girls, get used to it. It's a hand to mouth existence? Bulimia is rife, we know. Maybe, like public sector workers, models just want their wages to keep pace with consumer price index.
I wish them luck gaining public sympathy as they waggle placards declaring: "We won't get out of bed for anything less than $10,000, plus inflation."
The full article contains 983 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
