Good King Wenceslas

I need hardly point out Mum's terrible mistake here. She expects me to go and get sticks for the fire and that's alright BUT the snow is not lying, 'deep and crisp and even' like in the sad carol, 'Good King Wenceslas'. It's not lying at all, it's not even falling-nightmare.

I hope my story isn't too confusing for you. Basically you need to know how difficult the life of a nine year old can be-especially at Christmas. Carrying on then...
In the sitting room there are some sad carols playing on Radio Dinosaur. I would like to watch the TV but my Unspeakable Parents won't let me. They have decided it is time to decorate the tree. Mum stands on a tall and exciting ladder. She puts lots of little wooden toys and heavy glass balls on the tree. These decorations are mostly as old as my parents and make the branches bend.
'Just hand them up to me, Wilfred,' says Mum, with her hand sticking out.
'Can't I just put one on?' I ask, juggling two of them very carefully.
'NO!' my parents say together.
I try something else.
'Can't we have a tree which sings when you shout at it?' I ask. 'Dexter has one.'
My Dad pats me on the head.
'Look, son, why don't you listen to the carols or go and find Dexter? You two could find lots of sticks for the fire!'
Mum beams at me. 'Oh yes! That would be so helpful, dear.'
I decide to give the carols a miss-they're making me want to kill something.
'I'll find the sticks,' I say. 'Sticks, logs, branches, trees...'
'Just sticks, Wilf,' Mum jumps in. 'You know kindling. Like the poor peasant collected in this carol, 'Good King Wenceslas'.'
She's babbling rubbish now-time to scoot.