The Christmas season has not got off to the best of starts this year. On Saturday we went to get our tree. As my wife is a Christmas fundamentalist (fatwas for anyone not having turkey on Christmas Day, jihad against any house without decorations, supplication before 'It's a Wonderful Life' five times a day, etc.), we of course went for the real tree. Don't get me wrong, I love real Christmas trees. The only problem is that they don't love me. I get a strong allergic reaction to the sap from evergreens. In recent years I have avoided any problems due to careful precautions and limited exposure. This year was different.

It seemed that we had found the perfect tree - a scots pine of just the right height to grace our living room, no bare bits, and a near perfect conical shape. The only problem appeared to be the bottom of the trunk, which veered off at a forty-five degree angle for the last six inches or so. We could feel the envious eyes of the other Christmas tree hunters boring into our backs, and knew they were ready to pounce if we dropped the tree for a second. The likelihood was that we would not get a tree anywhere near as perfect from the rest of the crop, and at home we knew had the Rolls Royce of Christmas tree holders on our side. We took it without hesitation.

Upon getting the tree home, we realised the error of our ways. After a number of protracted attempts to get the tree up, we could not even attain a Leaning Christmas Tree of Pisa level of uprightness. The trunk around the bent area was thicker, and would not go properly through the aperture in the base. In desperation we decided to cut the tree short just above the bend. I should say at this time that neither of us are the most DIY savvy people in the world, and all we could find in the house to help us was the cheapest of the cheap saw from a bargain basement DIY set. About half and inch into the trunk the saw started to jam. My wife and I took it in turns to try to make progress. Although I had gloves on, it was impossible to avoid contact with the tree which enveloped me at every available opportunity, weemingly sensing my vulnerablility and sending its sappy fronds up my jumper and around my neck and I tried to get some purchase on the saw.

Finally we got through and triumphantly replaced the tree on the stand, only to come straight up against our next setback. The stump of the tree was now not sufficient distance from the first main set of branches to be able to ground itself in the bottom of the stand, once again producing unerring erectile dysfunction. The problem was that after the first branches was a gap of at least a foot to the next ones. The bottom branches also, we then realised, contained a significant amount of foliage (needlage?). But we had no choice, and mournfully set about the task of recutting the trunk above the low branches. Once again, the task involved many close encounters of the sappy kind. To make things worse, about half way through we realised that there was a hacksaw under the sink. With the aid of this, we were able to complete the work in less than a minute, making us rue the fact that we had not been able to lay our hands on it earlier.

Finally, the now quite diminutive, bus still perfectly proportioned tree slotted neatly in the stand and stood proud before us, ripe for trimming, but it had left its mark on me, as I was to find out the next day.

Gradually the dry, blotchy rash has worked its way across my face, arms, neck and midriff, leaving my skin feeling chapped and sore. Today it has launched a shock-and-awe campaign on my fingers, and who knows where it will strike next? I am suitably rosy-cheeked for Christmas, but in a manner that could frighten small children. I have never heard of this allergy before, and don't know if it is common or not. I am applying moisturiser, and should really go to see the doctor, but my main tactic is just to cross my pimpled fingers that things improve before the holidays.