Businessless

With few signs of hesitation, Monday was set as the display transition day.

Of course, this simple transition had almost turned into an actual crime scene. It started with a phone call.

– Guess what, – Li said, her voice was unusually frantic, – We just received a four hundred pounds fine. And I think our Christmas tree has been confiscated.

– Confiscated?! – Before I could say anything my mind immediately pictured a council officer stuffing the tree into a van, while our angry customers wept over the absence of baubles and aromatic truffle gift sets. – How could anyone confiscate a tree? Did the council representative decide it was a health hazard?

– I don’t know, – Li sighed. – Maybe it was too festive…Maybe it offended someone’s aesthetic.

We started laughing, imagining the absurdity.

– Do you think the council’s tree squad came in after hours? Perhaps it was making too much noise at night – keeping the other trees awake.

I giggled, but clearly, I was still trying to piece things together.

– Perhaps the penalty fine is not related to the tree, but then again, there would be no reason for the council to confiscate it… Where is this silly tree?!

The Christmas tree, let me clarify, is blameless in this story. I regret calling it silly; it was merely an innocent participant in the chaos that defines our retail lives. But allow me to paint the scene:

Picture it – a council representative, clipboard clutched tightly, stepping into our shop right in the throes of the peak season. The December madness was in full swing, sales booming, and shelves perpetually in need of restocking. Yet, amid this whirlwind, their eagle eye locked not on a misplaced temperature log or the precariously stacked boxes of truffle oil. No. it was the Christmas tree that caught their attention.

Within moments, the council representative deemed our festive fir unfit for purpose. And just like that, he took it. Carried it out of the shop as if it were a contraband item in a high-stakes heist.

You might think, “it’s just a tree,” but oh, how wrong you’d be. This wasn’t just any tree; it was a beacon. A shining symbol of the season, meticulously decorated to lure customers with its twinkling lights and carefully curated baubles. And let’s not forget the strategic positioning – it stood at the very entrance, exuding Christmas spirit and practically whispering to passerby, “Come inside, buy some truffles, indulge in the festive cheer!”

Now, instead of a storefront brimming with holiday warmth, we were left with a barren corner where the tree once stood. The shop suddenly felt… naked. Devoid of joy. The rich aroma of truffles could only do so much when paired with an emptiness that screamed, Christmas is cancelled.

But the indignity didn’t stop there. As if losing the tree wasn’t punishment enough, we were slapped with a penalty charge. Yes, we not only lost our tree, but now money too. The irony, of course, was that this fine could have been spent on more decorations to replace the tree – perhaps even a new one, less rule-breaking, but just as charming. And while the council representative must have left satisfied, we were left to face the fallout. The end-of-December rush, fuelled by Orthodox Christmas and the approach of Chinese New Year, meant we couldn’t afford even a day of looking anything less than festive. Decorations weren’t optional – they were a necessity.

We left that evening feeling more like detectives than shopkeepers. The mystery of the missing Christmas tree hung over us like a low, ominous cloud. Why was it confiscated? Why was it not on our shift? And why hadn’t anyone said anything? All we knew for certain was that Ed and Marcus were working that day, which, in retrospect, should have been our first red flag.

The truth, when it finally unravelled, was nothing short of tragic. No, the tree hadn’t been confiscated by some joyless Grinch-like council authority. It hadn’t been stolen in a daring heist by desperate competitors seeking to outshine us.

The answer was far more devastating in its absurdity: Ed and Marcus, in an act of staggering brilliance, had packed the tree back into its original box.

Now, you might think, “Ah, how responsible of them! Keeping the tree safe and tidy!” But you would be sorely mistaken. For reasons best left to the mysteries of the cosmos, they had then left the boxed tree outside the shop. Yes, outside. On the pavement. Like it was waiting to be collected with the bins.

Did Marcus and Ed stop to think that perhaps leaving a boxed Christmas tree on a public street during peak season might not be the best idea? Apparently not. Perhaps they thought someone would magically understand their intentions. Or maybe they assumed the tree would sprout legs and march itself back inside once the shop reopened.

This whole tree fiasco perfectly captures the unspoken truth of retail: no matter how meticulously you plan, your success or failure often rests on the judgement of the least qualified person in the room.

From a business perspective, the Christmas tree was an asset. A meticulously placed piece of seasonal marketing, strategically designed to generate foot traffic and nudge customers into parting with their money. In the retail world, you can hang all the “50% off” signs you want, but nothing says “buy something unnecessary” like the warm glow of a festively lit tree. Losing it was more than a blow to aesthetics; it was a direct hit to the shop’s ability to capitalise on holiday sentimentality.

And of course, the fine. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like the council handing you a bill for what could have been spent on replenishing the stock or other expenses. The fact that this penalty stemmed from an internal act of incompetence rather than an external force only adds to the sting. In business, fines are often seen as a cost of doing business – until you realize they’re a cost of doing business with Ed and Marcus.

Form a risk management perspective, this incident highlights the importance of systems. What the shop needed wasn’t just a tree but a protocol: a clear, written-down, bulletproof guide titled “What to do with the Christmas tree when it’s not in use” – and perhaps laminated for good measure.

Finally, there’s the question of reputational damage. A Christmas tree on the pavement doesn’t just look bad; it speaks. It tells a story to every passerby that goes something like: This shop might not even be able to handle its decorations, let alone your holiday orders. Perception matters in retail, and unfortunately, our bare corner likely screamed, “Christmas is cancelled – and so is competence”.

We called the council the next morning. A particularly grumpy representative answered.

– Good morning, we are calling about a four hundred pounds fine for…leaving a Christmas tree outside? – Li started, her voice was full of denial and forced politeness.

– Oh, yes, – the representative replied curtly. – You are that shop on York Street? The tree was reported to us as an obstruction on the pavement.

Li and I exchanged glances – we weren’t entirely sure whether to laugh or cry.

– Right, – I said, – The thing is, it was our colleagues who left it out on the pavement, not us. In all honesty, we were supposed to put it in the storage the next day, but…

– It doesn’t matter who did it, – the council worker interrupted, clearly in no mood for my defence case. – It is your shop, your responsibility, therefore, the fine stands.

Li read my expression and gave me a resigned look, mouthing “of course”. The council worker had zero sympathy for our tree predicament – or who knows, maybe they had seen one too many Christmas trees abandoned in the wild this season.

After Li and I shared a laugh, the reality set in. The fine was real, the tree was gone.

– I don’t know, Li… Can anything work smoothly in this place? How hard was it really to put the tree away nicely until the next year. Seriously, the ‘meeting’ room is just a few steps away… or do we have to put the tree away ourselves too? Among other things?

– Well, now that there is no tree… there’s one problem less. – she laughed quietly.

We figured that perhaps my dad didn’t want us to stress unnecessarily about the situation. Or maybe he thought, if I tell them now, they’ll spend the entire day disserting it instead of working – no truffles will get sold, no orders will get packed. But eventually, he spilled the beans.