Like the soft, hopeless fool I am, I gave The Boy a bit of extra pocket money this month, partly for getting through his mocks without exploding, and partly because I Enjoy Making A Rod For My Own Back. Anyway, two days ago he sidled up to me, and asked if he could have a bit more money to buy me a Christmas present. Right I thundered as uselessly as an elephant with laryngitis, you’re getting a job after Christmas. Definitely, he said. Now could I have some money please? I was in the middle of writing something reasonably coherent so gave him a tenner.
Two days later I was off up the shops when The Boy stuck his head over the banisters. As you’re going to the shops anyway, if I give you the money could you . . .?
No! Get the presents yourself! Bloody cheek. So he huffed and groaned and set off to the shops to buy two bloody presents for Husband and I which I had given him money for. Did he have no shame?
Clearly not. Because ten minutes later he rang me, sounding very disgruntled.
Mum I’m in MSN.
Don’t you mean M&S?
Yeah – whatever. What am I supposed to get dad?
I’d told him three times and written it down.
Hankies, I snapped.
What are they?
You know – things you blow your nose on. Like your sleeve but smaller. And square. And unlike you – not snotty.
But where am I supposed to get them? I swear to God he can open a fridge but unless what he wants to eat is Right In Front Of Him, it may as well be invisible.
Look at the sign in front of you which says Men’s Clothes Third Floor. Go up the escalator. Then ask someone.
I hung up.
And a wonderful Christmas to all my lovely mates in Blogland. Let’s all reconvene with tales of drunken aunties and simmering family rows very soon!