My Christmas blog was going to be about the religious hypocrisy of the middle classes, but turns out I’m going to write about a box of toffees instead.
I was going to mention how our local church was packed to the rafters for the Christmas Eve carol service with 30-somethings and their unruly babes. Of course, the festive season always brings out the cod-Christians but our church is attached to the only Church of England primary school in the borough and the remarkable preponderance of families with pre-school kids at the service seemed less like religious observance and more like a down payment on their children’s education. Especially as all the parents were vying with one another to catch the attention of the headmaster and vicar. “Look at me! I’m here, worshipping away and my child’s not even school age!”
Young ‘Un and I were there to enjoy a good sing song and acknowledge why we celebrate Christmas. But it became evident yesterday that Young ‘Un hasn’t quite understood the Yuletide message and that’s where the offending toffees come in.
Now, let me be clear, I like toffees. I much prefer toffee to chocolate. I can even make toffee should I so want to do.
What I don’t want is a box of toffees as my one and only Christmas present from my one and only child. If it’s the thought that counts then what do a box of toffees say about what Young ‘Un and the parental Reds, who helped buy the toffees, think of me? Not much unless it’s that I’m tough and may pull your fillings out?
Something to chew over
This is not the first time a thoughtless gift has hurt my feelings. I’ve had a slew of dismal, unwanted, and inappropriate gifts courtesy of the Reds over the years. One birthday, Mr Red helped Young ‘Un graffiti an oversize white T-shirt, and that was my present. I might add that Young ‘Un will never be troubling the Royal Academy and the paints were washable. I’ve tried not to dwell on what these last minute, cobbled together, carnations-from-the-garage-forecourt presents mean about my status in the family Red, but each time it happens I feel just that little bit less loved and that little bit more taken for granted.
So this year, to avoid them having to think of what to buy and me taking umbrage with any gifts, I made a list. Here it is:
- Maybelline mascara
- Big red Moleskin diary
- London A to Z
- UK road atlas.
All quite modest and nowt over twenty quid. I even had a conversation with Young ‘Un about what he might get me if he didn’t fancy anything on the list; he was thinking of booze. I said: “Booze is good. Just don’t buy me any white wine or brown spirits.”
I even texted Mr Red while he and Young ‘Un were shopping for my gift. “Don’t let him buy rubbish for himself – today is about me.” And yet they returned from the shops with a box of toffees and 15 quids’ worth of Yu Gi Oh cards for Young ‘Un.
Childhood friend Nash phoned up late last night to wish us Merry Christmas. She commiserated with the gift and pragmatically asked: “What sort of toffees?”
“Thorntons.”
“So it’s not rubbish at least.”
And of course it’s not the toffee that’s upset me. It’s the knowledge that Young ‘Un, at the age of 11, despite my best efforts, has still not learnt what it means to give something to someone you claim to love, which signifies you thought of them with love in your heart. It need never be much, but to be given a gift you know was bought with some thought for you is a powerful present.
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