This year the youngest and her lovely partner are hosting the family Christmas celebration.
Their hearts are large. Their flat is small. There are a lot of us.
An email arrives from youngest asking how we'd all feel about a Secret Santa arrangement?
That way we each arrive with just one parcel for under the tree, thus saving valuable space. I consult her father, as follows:
'How d'you feel about doing Secret Santa this year?'
'What's involved?'
'Everyone buys just one present and there's a limit of twenty quid.'
'And that's it?'
'That's it.'
'Let's do it. Every year. Forever.'
Thus, we're in and so, it transpires, is everybody else. Those involved are scattered around the country but, as with everything in this day and age, the arrangements are made with the help of a handy website. We all eagerly await the email that will tell us who we're to buy for, which duly arrives. Even better, it includes a useful wishlist in which every recipient can mention those items that would definitely bring them pleasure when they rip the paper off their gift. I think this is an excellent idea. It doesn't ruin the element of surprise, as you don't know which option the giver will go for, but it avoids the spirit crushing possibility that the one and only pressie you're going to receive is something you hate so much you'll think there must be members of your family who've never even met you. And surprises are all well and good, except when they turn out to be more of a bloody shock. So I put a couple of suggestions on my wish list and consider it a job well done.
I find the whole thing quite delightful. And then I notice that the thoughtful website even includes a list of helpful suggestions for those who might have to buy for someone who hasn't given them any clue as to what they'd like. I'm intrigued.
The links are divided up by sex and age. I note there is one dedicated to 'Women - 60 to 70.'
'Look,' I say to my husband, 'There's a list of things for me.'
I should probably add that I only just squeeze into the latter end of this category.
'Don't look at it,' he advises.
'Why not?' I ask.
'You might not like it. It might make you shout.'
'So?'
'You're scary when you're shouty,' he says.
'I'm going to look anyway,' I tell him.
'I'm going to the shed,' he says.
Two and a half minutes later I start shouting.
Whoever compiled this list....and I picture them as having skinny jeans, a beard, a man-bun and living in a trendy Shoreditch loft....has some very odd ideas of what I'd like for Christmas, as in 'no fucking idea whatsoever.' Apparently, my little old wizened face will light up at the sight of any of the following: Stationery, Photograph Frames, Calligraphy Set, Cross-Stitch or Embroidery Kit, Scrapbook (what for??) Knitting or Crochet Kit, Rag-Rug Making Set, Thermal Underwear, an Electric Blanket or...wait for it...Ugg Boots. UGG BOOTS! Now, my days of being a fashion victim might be fading into the past but, I ask you, UGG BOOTS!?! I'd like to think I retain a vestige of style.
But what was worse than all these hideous gift ideas was the helpful advice that came with each section. The premise seemed to be that the elderly wilfully sit about, atrophying, so giving them a set of bowls, for example, might coax them off their arses. Personally, when I have time on my hands I'm only too eager to head out for a spot of brisk hill-walking or to do a few road miles on my racing bike. If the weather's vile I'll ring a mate and meet up for gossip and a cocktail ot two. As for passing the wearisome hours with a cross-stitch cushion cover or sticking whatever it is you're supposed to stick in a scrapbook, it's not going to happen. Worst of all, this compiler expressed the opinion, and I quote, that 'few 70 year olds would confidently cater a party on their own.' WHAT?
They go on to posit the idea that any wrinkly foolish enough to try and throw a bit of a knees-up will welcome guests turning up with contributions, to include a 'case of their favourite mineral water' or, somewhat insultingly, an 'attractive tablecloth.' Now, I'm more than capable of throwing a good party and some of the best I've been to were given by mates in their sixties and seventies. And if you think I'd allow you over my doorstep with a bottle of water and a tablecloth, think again. A couple of bottles of decent wine are a different matter. Stroll right in.
Of course there's nothing intrinsically wrong with the gift ideas in that slightly misguided, online site. And I know I'm fortunate in that I'm fit and active and can still enjoy all the same things that I did when I was a young flibberdygibbet. But, as always, my complaint is that the compiler lumped us all together and made assumptions that I find offensive and hints at lazy research.
I'm not alone. I think lots of women of my age are living interesting, exciting lives full of people and doing things that they enjoy and, whilst accepting that not everybody's so lucky, we shouldn't all be shunted into this pitiable, helpless, hopeless mass. We are diverse, just like any other age group.
Happily, my family all know that, should they ever be stuck for a gift idea, a bottle of gin will always please.
Now I'll just pop out to the shed and let my husband know he can come back in.
Merry Christmas.
