Presents of Mind

The great thing about kids, when it comes to presents, is that it's all about the present.

And so it bloody well should be.

All this... "It's the thought that counts nonsense"... That's an affectation. Boring nonsense.

That's the sort of stuff that begins when you start thinking of saving the paper for next year instead of ripping it open and causing a right bloody mess.

It's a present. So it's about the present. 

Witness as I fairly recently caused.. a kid unwrapping a Christmas present from yours truly.

The look of horror on her face when she ripped open the paper and saw that it was a book.

A book.

A bloody book.

How dare you!

Not a game. Not chocolates.

She held her look of utter horror undiminished, nowhere to recede.

"A fucking book,what you want to do with that?", she didn't say. 

"Bloody well, read it or something, dipshit? she didn't add. 

Are you mad?

Of course all this was portrayed by just one look of utter astonishment at the bloody-minded nerve of somebody giving her an actual book.

And she was absolutely correct.

I was totally on the same page, if you forgive.

How dare anybody give somebody a book ? 

Everybody knows that the only type of book acceptable as a gift is the Annual. That most seasonal of gifts that never in history has  lived up to expectations.  But entirely appropriate.

And not the Blue Peter annual either. Whose life is going to be improved by using Peter Purves, Yvette Fielding or John Leslie as role models. I'll give you Mark Curry because I liked him on Change That. 

But after that I draw the line.

The male members of my immediate family have a particularly chequered history in the giftgiving department.

Not a huge amount of thought. Not a huge amount of present.

My Dad, I'm pretty sure, never bought a present in his life.

I think he probably regifted a couple of things in his later years and sent his girlfriend to Primark with a fiver once or twice, to minimally acquit responsibility. But that would be about it. 

Santa was always Mum-shaped. 

And yet bizarrely he was very keen to receive a nice gift. And would feel totally free to comment if  he felt otherwise.

Funny isn't it?

So I gave her a book. I can still see that look of horror.

She handled it like a dirty dishcloth.

I can't remember which boring classic it was. I'd like to think Treasure Island but I have  feeling it was something like Gulliver's Travels. The point was not the text however. It was the thickness of the paper.

And as it fell to the side, it fell open.

Out fell gold coins from its secret compartment. 

Chocolate of course.

And just one  silver one. 

Milk chocolate of course. 

Just one though.

I'd eaten the rest.