There's just something about Christmas isn't there? For many, it's seeing old friends, but for me, it's the annual ritual of being arrested outside our old house. The charge is always 'loitering' but I would dispute that. I would say I am "loitering with intent to decorate a Christmas tree". But judges just don't see those distinctions do they?

The tree issue started when I was about nine. Eager to please, I was tricked, by a duplicitous, cunning, mother to decorate the Christmas tree. "When I grow up," I had said, "I want to be an engineer."

"Well why not make a start now and do up the tree?" she said. "Engineers make great decorators. It can be your little job, forever!"

I took her at her word. Japanese troops in WWII were less tenacious than young Dunne. Sadly there are photographs. The tree is the only constant. Artificial ones don't age, unlike the boy. The boy is seen in short trousers, then in long trousers, as a child, a teen and then a young man. He appears variously as a fan of the Bay City Rollers, Mud, the Sex Pistols and REM. He is always enthusiastic.

And it wasn't easy. The tree, old 'silver', was kept in the attic. The utterly un-insulated space was accessed by standing on a chair and climbing monkey-like up a bedroom door. Once inside, you were in the wonderland. It was a treasure trove of discarded toys and cards, and three issues of a dubious magazine. Best left unsolved, that one.

It was my favourite annual ritual. When I lived at home it marked the start of Christmas. I would emerge triumphant from the front room and call my mother to look at my handiwork. "Very nice, Thomas," she would declare, unconvincingly. When I moved out, the annual call to ask "are you coming over to do the tree", was the most welcome of the year.

But one year I had itchy feet. There was a party planned in town. If texts had been invented I would have been receiving numerous ones. Instead, I was in an attic, at last starting to question why none of my siblings had ever been involved in the tree-decorating business. The worm was turning.

And the tree wasn't playing ball. The lights were proving hard to unravel. As I struggled with them I started to wonder if now might be a good time to nudge my mother and the tree in the direction of one of my other siblings. The thought grew stronger with each twisted, reluctant wire.

"Mam!" I said dramatically, gesturing to the tree and the decorations and the lights, "I hate to say this," I mumbled, swallowing, "but I don't think this is working." The words hung in the air for an eternity. She looked around the room, her mind trying to make sense of it. And then she asked softly: "Do we think we need an extra set?"

"Do you think we need an extra set?" The words still haunt me. I would have put up 12 trees a year for her after that. The house is sold now, but who knows, maybe the new owners need a hand? And if they do, they know where to find me. Parked outside, ready, waiting and all tinselled-up.