WITH THE HOLIDAYS ONLY a week away, I've cajoled Vic into driving north of the city to a fresh Christmas Tree Farm. Most people have had a tree up since November (some since the minute after Hallowe'en), but I've never believed in that. Trying to explain to my kids that people *used* to wait until Christmas Eve to decorate a tree is like explaining that a phone line used to be shared by a whole neighbourhood block or that cars used to be started by winding a crank. Like all children, they have difficulty accepting a reality outside of what they've grown up with. I don't mean to brag, but I sometimes think Generation X is the last generation capable of this sort of mental leap between before and now because we grew up in a time where a lot of pretty significant stuff changed and we just had to roll with it. We're old enough to remember bosses dictating letters to stenographers because there was no email, mothers shouting "supper time!" down darkening streets because there were no cellphones, people smoking on airplanes, in restaurants, at work because — well, I'm not sure why really. Because they could and most people did.

Having lived through these massive shifts in tech and cultural norms, we find it easier both to imagine and remember things differently. And I remember getting a tree as a bright, twinkly signal that Christmas was just around the corner. You can't be just around the corner from something for a whole quarter of the year without losing a little magic.

So, when I announced this morning that it was finally tree-day, I expected some excitement. What I got was Maeve asking if we'd be back in time for her to do an afternoon shift at the cafe, Tim/othy grumbling about having virtual plans to meet his friends in the Minecraft netherworld (although he promptly changed his tune when he found out Viv was coming too) and a husband who, I swear to god, rolled his eyes at me.

"Do we have to go to the farm? Can't we just get a tree from the hardware store parking lot?"

"No, we can't!" I said, aghast at the very suggestion. "Does the hardware store parking lot have hot chocolate?"

"We could bring our own," he countered.

"Do they have horse-drawn wagons with hay and warm blankets that take you out into the fields?"

"You hate those wagons. You always worry you're going to get fleas."

He'd got me there. But I had one last card up my sleeve:

"Does the parking lot give you your own saw and let you hack a tree of your choosing down with your bare hands?"

He shook his head. He'd never admit it, but I know he secretly likes getting to use a saw in public. A fresh Christmas tree farm is just a bunch of men showing off in front of other men about how handy they are with a saw.

WHEN WE ARRIVE AT Tucker's Farm and finally find somewhere to stash the car (directly in the centre of the vast mud pit they call their parking area), we squelch over to the saw rental booth and get in line.

Vivian, who is fashionably but inappropriately dressed in a 70s disco rabbit-skin bomber jacket and shiny silver leggings, is already shaking in the cold and blowing on her hands.

"Here," I peel my fat mittens off, hoping to win back some favour with her after the underwear misunderstanding, and hand them to her. "Wear these. I have another pair in my backpack."

"Okay," she grudgingly accepts and I whip my bag around to my front to dig out my second pair of mittens.

"Vivian, may I interest you in a hot chocolate?" Offers my 13-year-old son in that vaguely British accent he's adopted.

"Um, sure. But I'll buy," she says, and they wander off to the bonfire where tree farm employees dressed as elves are ladling out smokey cupfuls from a big camp pot.

There's a suburban dad at the front of the line who seems to have forgotten his Christmas spirit and is shouting at the saw rental guy, also dressed as an elf.

"These manual saws don't work! I want one of the chainsaws. I saw someone with a chainsaw."

"Sir," replies the saw-elf, "Chainsaws are for employees only. If you'd like to pick out your tree and have it cut by us, we'll send someone with a chainsaw over to do it."

"I don't NEED help cutting my tree. I can cut my own goddam tree. I just want to do it with a chainsaw."

The saw-elf is getting flustered in the face of all this barely contained suburban dad rage, and he just points lamely at the "No Chainsaws for Guests" sign tacked to the lean-to wall behind his head.

"Sir, like the sign says—"

At which Suburban Dad's face goes scarily red. "I can read the GODDAM SIGN, kid. I'm telling you—"

That's when Vic, my peace-loving, only-punched-one-person-in-his-whole-life-that-I'm-aware-of-and-he-had-it-coming  husband, reaches out and firmly grips the other man's shoulder.

"Take a regular saw," he says in a low, even voice. "And go cut your tree. That's what you came here to do, isn't it?"

The man's nostrils flare and his eyes swing from the saw-elf to Vic and back again like a bull deciding which way to charge.

The moment is full of tension. I half hope someone's filming this because I'd really like to share it with my millions of followers (#hothusbandsavesxmas) but as quickly as it escalated, it deescalates. Suburban Dad comes to his senses and nods in Vic's direction.

"Yeah, no, you're right." He takes the handsaw and stomps off toward the hay wagon. I dearly hope the wagon fills up before we're ready to get on because I don't want to be anywhere near that guy when he finds out all the Balsam Firs are gone.

A HALF HOUR LATER, Maeve and I are trailing Vic through shin-deep snow as he hunts out the perfect tree. I've given up pointing out trees because he deems them too big, too full or too sappy (all qualities I thought we were looking for, but since I'm not the one who has to climb under it and cut it down, I decide to defer to his vision). As he stalks across the field of trees, Maeve and I chat about the cafe.

"What would you think about me coming back to work there?" she ventures.

"Instead of school?" I narrow my frozen eyelashes at her. "For how long? Are you taking a gap year? Is that the plan? Because I have to tell you—"

"Not a gap year. I've been thinking a lot about the future, Mum and I'm sorry if this bums you out, but I don't want a university degree. I want to bake. I want to be a baker. Is that crazy?"

I pause to flick snow out of my boot and consider what she's saying. Of course, she can be whatever she wants to be. I've always told my children that.

"That's what you want to do? As a career, I mean? Not just a hobby."

"I know; I need to train."

"There are culinary courses at the college you could—"

"Actually, I was thinking about another path. I wondered if you'd ask Margolie if she'd be willing to take me on as an apprentice."

I can tell from her face that she's expecting me to reject that idea. But the truth is, the moment she suggests it, I can't help but see the rightness of it. If Margolie is willing, who better for Maeve to learn from than a successful, female business owner and pure master of the alchemy between butter, flour and sugar?

"I think that's the best idea I've ever heard. I'll speak to her."

Maeve smiles at me, or tries to, given that her face is seizing up in the cold, and we catch up to Vic, who has at last identified his great white whale in the form of spikey Scotch Pine.

"Needle retention," he says authoritatively, and he clambers under the curtain of long pokey needles to start sawing through the trunk.

I take my phone out, eager to capture this splendid family moment for possible use on my Instagram, which is now teeming with followers who believe me to be worth following and, therefore, expect a steady steam of twee, hyper-filtered shots of the many interesting things I do — which is problematic given that I don't actually do much of interest and pictures of my navy blue walls and free swag don't seem to be getting the same number of likes that they used to.

I've got the tree centred perfectly in the frame and my husband's butt pokes comically out from underneath it. I'm already planning my hashtags (I like #bigbutts and #bigxmastrees) when the screen goes black with an incoming call.

It's Joss. He's probably calling to ask when I'm going to sign the agreement papers. Ugh. I tap the green answer icon.

"Alice," his JosstheBoss voice booms out of the speaker. "I don't have time to talk."

Then why call me, I think, but am not given a chance to reply.

"Eloise says early numbers are looking good on the new vid. Very promising. Already lots of puke memes getting remixed. Good traction. Funny stuff. I've booked you in for the retreat. You'll do a keynote, of course. Secrets to viral success, something like that. No tartan jumpsuits. Business attire during the day. Justine wants you to fly with us on the family jet, yes? Yes. My sister thinks you're great. I'll send the driver to pick you up. 6 am next Monday."

Wait, what? Sicily? Next Monday? I do a quick mental calculation. That's Boxing Day.

"But Joss — hang on, that's right in the middle of Christmas."

"No, Alice," he says patiently. "It's right after Christmas. And the 27th is a working day, so I want us all on-site and ready to team-build like mothereffers."

"Will we... will we be back for New Year's Eve?" I ask weakly, feeling the noose of corporate life tightening firmly around my neck.

"And miss the chance to ring it in with Champagne overlooking the Ionian Sea? Don't be ridiculous. We'll fly back New Year's Day."

"It's all just... a little sooner than I expected."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Joss hoots. "No, I didn't realize you wanted to save your business LATER. Here I was thinking it was IMPORTANT to you!"

"It is important. It's just—" I look over to see Vic and Maeve watching me circumspectly across the recently felled pine. I make a helpless gesture at them, but they give nothing away. "Okay, I guess it's fine. See you on Boxing Day."

Satisfied that he's got what he wanted, Joss hangs up. I look over to Vic to begin the process of explaining the situation, but he's already dragging the tree toward the closest flea wagon.