The worst present my Dad ever got my Mum was
perfume. This iconic moment from the
late 80s that says so much about their relationship when they were together,
was captured on video tape and thenceforth available to enjoy for
posterity. I can see it now: My mum opening the parcel; my Dad - in stark contrast to the family
trait of offering a self-deprecating apology when giving anyone a present -
displaying naïve optimism about how expensive and top-of-the-range the gift was; my Mum’s face, stony and stoic as the moment
of denouement becomes akin to unwrapping a turd. My Dad watches her, crestfallen, as she opens
the bottle and sniffs. “Do you not like
it?” he asks, pitifully. She retches; one
of those enormous, hacking, phlegmy retches.
An uncontrollable wave of nausea engulfs her senses. If my Dad had placed his buttocks either side
of her nose and sharted, she might not have responded quite this badly. “It’s like the stuff Greek women wear!” she
moans (not actually with any xenophobic spite, as she is half-Greek.)
I have therefore never bought my wife perfume
unless she has specified the type. I
learned from my Dad’s mistake. But I
didn’t learn enough. When I met my wife,
she was still 19 and had something of a different taste to what she had as she
was pushing 40. Not that I noticed this development. So, when I purchased a pair of coconut shell
ear-rings, made in West Africa and carved into elephant shapes, I believed it
was a fiver well spent and just the sort of thing she likes. It wasn’t.
She made it VERY clear the ear-rings were crap. So, I rewrapped them and gave them back to
her the following two Christmases. By
that point the joke had worn thin and she set fire to them before casting them
into the rubbish.
This present-buying crapness dates back to
when I was first old enough to get on the 29 bus and go to Wood Green on my own
in order to choose something for the family. It would be harsh to call me a
thoughtless present-buyer though. An
unimaginative one maybe. At the time, I
recall asking myself the question, “What does Mum like doing?” The answer led me, on one occasion, into
buying from Argos a drying rack for dishes and cutlery. Even my Dad saw the error in this choice and
pointed out the ungrateful message I might be sending Mum. So, most other years I concentrated on her
other pastime and bought her ash-trays, lighters or (when I was really short of
ideas) just 40 Embassy.
Not that my Dad was (or indeed is) any easier
to buy for. Being a cynical old goat, he
doesn’t really have any interests. I
tend to buy him a book each year and suspect he never reads it. The only time he showed true gratitude
towards a present was when I put a bet on for him for Italy to win the 2012
Euros (actually, that was a Fathers’ Day gift.)
They didn’t win, but it gave him more interest in the competition.
Within families, people tend to pick up on one
thing that you’re interested in and then buy you something related to that
every year for the rest of your life.
When my brother reached 16 or 17 he must have got so pissed once that my
Dad ended up recounting this misadventure to my aunt who then formed the assumption
that booze is his chief interest. He
thereafter received beer each Christmas and felt quite insulted by it.
You can, of course, just make a list and use your
family like a retail delivery service.
This stops them making any mistakes.
I first did this at 12 and wrote down that I wanted Adam and the Ants’
new album, Prince Charming. This was
duly bought for me. Dad inspected it
after I’d opened it, cast aspersions on Adam Ant’s sexuality (and by
implication on my own) by saying, “He looks like a pooftah” and then reading
out the tracklist which included the song S.E.X., which he repeated until I had
cringed my way into a small ball of embarrassment.
I bought MrsA a cheap, nasty saucepan one xmas after I told her that a work colleague couldn't understand why his wife was upset by the hoover, saucepans and washing machine he'd bought her for xmas. MrsA loved the saucepan. The irony was lost on her.
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