Oh no! It’s Christmas

In which Ubergrumpy goes Christmas shopping. And gets it wrong. Again.

Don’t get me wrong; I like the Festive Season. I like the goodwill-to-all-men stuff¹, and the excuse to put your diet on hold, and ample free booze from the neighbours, and limitless Twiglets, and mistletoe (mmwah! WaHAAY!), and the shiny lights, etc etc.

It’s the shopping I hate.

The problem, you see, is Mrs G. She has three traits which are highly desirable in one’s spouse for most of the year. One: She’s a contented sort of person, and doesn’t want much. Two: She already has at least one of everything anyway. Three: She’s a tasteful person, and prefers things like, oh, underwear, and earrings, to be just so.

Which throws me into a flat spin come the day when I can’t put it off any more, and must start shopping.²

I start in the Debenhams lingerie department, naturally, to take the Annual Walk of Shame. Emboldened by the herd of sheepish-looking blokes in there with me, I ought to be a bit more brazen (“What size Sir? Well, about yours, actually”) but I become mesmerized by all the loopy bits and lacy doodads, and lose the ability to speak. I eventually stumble out of the shop about an hour later, clutching a nice new wallet, for me.

(Actually, here’s a top tip. I am quite tempted to take last year’s pink-and-purple Elastane-and-Lycra four-part lingerie set out of Mrs G’s top secret drawer, and wrap it up again. I don’t think she’d notice. It’s never been worn. She hasn’t even read the manual.)

Several more shops prove equally hopeless. Body Shop? I dunno, but I think Aloe Vera and Ginger may chafe the skin, so I pass. Whittards? She already has eighteen teapots. White Stuff? Rubbish! She likes colourful things. And so on.

Eventually, in desperation, I hit the Winchester Christmas market. If you haven’t been, imagine ninety posh wooden sheds stuck behind a big church, then add half the population of Hartlepool. There’s very tempting stuff on sale, but I can’t get near any of it. Even the queue for the mulled wine is halfway back to Debenhams.

Home again then, and on to the Interwebnet. Hmmm. How about a new wacky corkscrew? “As seen on TV”, it says. Eh? I see my MP on TV most days but I’m not about to wrap him up and put him under the tree, am I? I pass.

But a couple of hours later, I’ve ordered some stuff. Job done? No. Because now, you have to wait for the deliveries. I swear delivery guys hover outside your front door, listening for a flushing sound before whipping out their bloody ‘We tried to deliver but you were out’ cards. So: I emerge from the loo to find three such cards on the doormat. I was only taking a pee. I didn’t even stop to wash my hands, dammit.

I give up. It’s about time we rejected all this distasteful commercial pressure, and returned to the true spirit of Christmas. Mrs G, this year, I give the gift of love, and this post. And a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

After all, it’s the thought that counts.

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1 - Why just men? Ah ha! I quite like the fact that Christmas is a bit sexist too.
2 - Often known as ‘Christmas Eve’.