A Gift

It wasn't so much the disappointment that floored her. It was the total lack of awareness. How? How was it possible to spend - no - throw away so much money on something so utterly uncoveted?

Shoes. I mean, really. Who buys anyone else shoes? It's a little like buying underwear for someone other than yourself - pointless, unwinnable, wasteful.

And it was the same every year:

What would you like darling?

Actually, I've really got into Fine Art lately... Maybe a book about that?

And oh! Look! A t-shirt.

Why bother? Seriously... Why ask in the first place? You put your mind to a helpful answer to have it discarded instantly in favour of... What? Something from the bottom of the 'present cupboard'; an outfit that will make you look twenty years older and at least six months pregnant; a cheese grater?

And the really grating (did you see what I did there?) element in all this is the all-pervading sense of ingratitude you feel on opening the beautifully-wrapped dross; the outrageously flamboyant show you have to put on in order to disguise the fact that you are, once again, bitterly disappointed.

Note to self: I shall never be a mindless purveyor of presents.