RELATIONS between my wife and I were still on the frosty side when we set off to collect the Christmas tree.

We’d started talking again following our dramatic fall-out on the tennis court, but the bruise on her arm kept being brought up in conversation.

This is the bruise she got when we collided while going for the same ball. After three cold nights in the doghouse, we came to the understanding that it was her ball, actually, and I had absolutely no right going for it whatsoever.

Anyway, the kids were all home for Sunday lunch from their various corners of the country, so we decided to try to thaw things a little by popping out for the tree.

We went through the usual ritual of comparing 5,000 trees, all of which looked exactly the same, before going back to one we’d looked at in the first few minutes.

While mum, daughter and two younger sons went into the farm shop to pay and look at the vast array of festive paraphernalia, me and The Big Friendly Giant were tasked with tying the tree onto the roof of the car.

There are some things which are just naturally jobs for men and, after all, we are the men of the house.

We sized up the challenge in front of us, agreed a strategy, and put it expertly into action: we wound down the passenger seat windows a bit, positioned ourselves on opposite sides of the car, fed a ball of twine through to each other, wrapped it several times round the tree, secured it with an unbreakable set of knots, then wound the windows back up.

Both of us tested the tautness of the twine and tried moving the tree but it was rock solid – not a snowball in hell’s chance of it falling off the people-carrier on the drive home.

“Hey, nice job, son,” I said to the BFG, giving him a manly high-five.

“You too, dad,” he replied, grasping my hand.

Right on cue, the others emerged from the shop. I jumped into the driver’s seat, the BFG got in beside me, and we waited for the others to settle in behind us.

There was a knock on my window: “Dad, the doors won’t open,” said my daughter, with a stern look.

“What do you mean, they won’t open?” I asked, getting out to look.

“You’ve tied the doors shut,” sighed my wife.

We tried unravelling the twine, but we couldn’t untie the knots. I suppose we’d done too good a job.

One by one, they all had to crawl in through the boot. I could tell my wife wasn’t very happy so I gave her bottom a push as she struggled in head-first and tried to help her get her leg over the back seats. She didn’t say “thank you”, but I’m sure I did hear her mumble something about Del Boy and Rodney.

Anyway, the good news is that the tree didn’t fall off on the way home.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

I REMEMBER how I felt when I found out Father Christmas wasn’t real,” said Christopher, 22, alias the BFG, over Sunday lunch.

“Well, imagine how I felt when I found out there are reindeer in real life,” replied his sister Hannah, aged 20.

THE QUESTIONS THEY ASK

“What’s a chip pan?” asked our Max, aged 15. He hasn’t lived.

Fartin’ Martin Sidebottom

THANK you to those who came to my book-signing at Waterstone’s, in Darlington, on Saturday.

Sales of my first children’s book, Fartin’ Martin Sidebottom, went like the wind, with a free whoopee cushion on offer with every copy sold.

I’m particularly grateful to the little boy who plucked up the courage to come up to me and say: “I don’t want a book, but can I have a free whoopee cushion?”

Call me soft old fart, but I gave him one.

Merry Christmas...