and change it into this: stalls smelling of hot sugar and fried onions,
and a man selling a turn with a bird of a prey for a quid?
Even a single month...
is too long. The trees are bundled, upturned, labelled and carried away to the sound of piped music...
...all this for the faint scent of the forest in our room, and greenery, which we will cover in tinsel and artificial snow. It is a temporary victory; like the stalls and the music and the labels on the trees all this will soon be swept away - and we will be left with less than we started with.