As I write, dear reader (readers? Are there more than one of you?) I am seated at my desk wearing the most insufferably smug grin you ever did see (not just the grin, you understand – I am also fully clothed. I find people who call to the house get distressed otherwise). Anyway, the grin is caused by the fact that all of my Christmas presents are bought, wrapped and labelled – with three clear weeks to go! Get me!
This is extremely unusual for me, as sadly I am usually the harassed female you spy scuttling round Tescbury’s at 4pm on Christmas Eve, wondering if my 14-year-old daughter would really appreciate three tins of Whiskas and a box of cornflour as her festive gift, and glaring threateningly at the security guard hovering at the door jangling the big bunch of keys. But not me, not this year, no sirree – although I may still go to Tescbury’s on Christmas Eve purely to give my smug grin another outing. I could take a flask and sit outside the door, smiling at people as they screech past and saying cheerily “I’ve done all mine, you know. Weeks ago.”
I do enjoy wrapping gifts, as I think I mentioned a couple of weeks ago. If my career as a knicker-dropper goes belly up ( 😉 ) I might apply to work in one of those gift-wrapping departments. I get a strange and peculiar thrill from a beautiful package (stoppit, dirty minded folk) and what’s more I’m good at it. I have a talent for wrapping even the most awkward of objects. This backfired last week though when TMBK decided it was time to wrap HIS gifts. “If you just do this one, Mum, I’ll do the rest. Oh, you’ve finished yours already Mum? Ok, well if you just have a go at this one, I’ll do the r… oh, you’ve finished that one too already. Ok, well, you just do these twelve and I’ll.. come back in a bit…”
I enjoyed it really. Just don’t tell him that.