When the Mister and I were first married, we lived in a house that was the size of a shopping cart. (Seriously, it was about 900 square feet, and only had two closets in the whole house. It was a real education in creative storage, let me tell you.) The Mister wanted a Christmas tree very much, but I was against the idea; partly because we didn't have the room, partly because we weren't home hardly at all at Christmas, but mostly because I couldn't be botherered. I suggested that if he really wanted one we put it up on his side of the bed, because that was about the only place I could think of for it to go.
Since we've been in this house, though, we've had a Christmas tree, sometimes a real one, and sometimes a fake one. I'm all keen on the fake one, because no matter how well we water a real one, it seems to hemmorhage needles all over the place, and I'm terrified that the whole think will burst into flames spontaneously. Once I was sitting in the living room reading a book, and all I could hear was the gentle but relentless sound of needles plopping onto the presents below. By the time Christmas finally got here we had a naked, brown tree with jaunty, shiny decorations all over it. Very festive; it looked like some sort of macabre art installation.
Here is our tree this year, right after Thing 2 put the angel on the top
That angel is not moving, by the way. That's the way she sits. We did eventually put it to rights, but I rather enjoyed the whole "angel in a hurricane" effect.
We are lucky that Toby pays almost no attention to the Christmas tree whatsoever. Although he thinks that a tree in the house is an excellent idea (possibly the best idea we've ever had, in fact, other than tuna.) it has not occurred to him to climb it, gnaw on it or assault it in any way. Mostly, he just arranges himself in his meatloaf pose underneath it:
Trees in the house. What a concept.