Seasoned Greetings
Well, I think it’s safe to say Christmas is over for another year. Any day now, the Easter decorations will be going up. Power consumption in neighbourhoods around the country will be dropping sharply as those awful, over-the-top Christmas Lights people coat their lawns and houses with are taken down for another year. The birds in those neighbourhoods can go back to sleeping, the 24-hour daylight effect finally gone.
Santa brought me bugger-all. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d be hard-pressed to convince the most gullible person on earth that I’ve been a good girl this year. I had no chance at all with a man who actually keeps track of that stuff.
The people who love me in spite of my wicked ways were a mite more generous. I got CDs (for putting me in the “writing mood”, of course) and a book (so that I could study how a successful author does things) from the Man of the House. From the Matriarch I received a stubby holder (for my alcohol-fueled writing binges or my writing-fueled alcohol binges - it’s multi-purpose) clearing up an oft-misunderstood aspect of my personality. I’m not insensitive, I just don’t care.
The Matriarch’s gift to the Man of the House was perhaps the highlight of the day. Nestled among other, more vanilla bits and pieces was a bottle of Haka Kiwi Bum Wash. The Man of the House immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. He assumed that my habit of choosing gifts which make some sort of statement must come from somewhere. “Is she saying I’ve got a dirty arse?” He sounded very fragile in that moment. I resisted my natural urge and explained to him that no, I somehow doubted that was what she was saying. Just like my habit of sniffing my food wasn’t something I inherited from her, she rarely puts any subtle statements into her gifts. As evidenced by that stubby holder, if she has a message it’ll be out there for the world to see. After 28 years of knowing the woman I was in a position to know exactly what had happened on the day she purchased that.
Walking through a Thames shop, perusing the merchandise for bits and pieces to send to her “loved ones”, the Matriarch came to an abrupt halt. A delighted smile spread across her features. She looked back to check that what she thought she saw was actually what she saw. She grinned that grin of hers which makes people wonder whether she is happy, amused, or about to bite. Unable to resist the amusement she felt at the sight of a specialised Bum Wash, she added that to the collection of things she was going to give to someone that year. She chose the Man of the House because she knew that my fancy would be as tickled as hers.
The only thing she was wrong about was that last part. Mine was much more tickled. Unlike the Matriarch I picked up the Bum Wash, turned it over and found its poem. What’s the poem? You’ll just have to go to a Shop in Thames (there’s not many, it won’t take long) and find out for yourself.
Now all I have to do is get the Man of the House to use it.
Tagged: Entertainment.