We lay all our anger at The Big Tree, mulching it down to feed the roots, so it grows up strong. To some it’s Yggdrasil, holding up the Nine Worlds, and to others it’s Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, holding up neatly-wrapped gifts and traditions. To a small minority, of whom I count myself a member, it’s quivering with anthropomorphism and flipping through guidebooks for Dunsinane and Isengard, holding up the march of unfettered ambition. Whatever the truth of the matter, The Big Tree’s doing a splendid job, so I invite it round for tea and a chat, and just to take the weight off its roots for a bit: and it cordially accepts, having never been in a house before, on the condition that I don’t just use the occasion to pump it with tedious questions of a philosophical, metaphorical, or simply folkloric nature. I’m fine with this, and although I’ve a million questions I’d love to ask, it’s good just to have the company, and it’s a pleasure to show The Big Tree how us humans order our days. At 9.00 I ask if he’d mind if I watched The News which, by-the-by, would give him a sense of the complex human context, so I flip on the TV and we run down the day from wars to weather. It’s good to know it’ll rain on Friday, he says when the adverts roll, but, fuck me, I can see why you’re angry.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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