Do you know, I think that this has been the best Christmas ever, (since the little ones have fledged, that is). D.H and I spent Christmas Day on our own, and that’s a first for us. We decided that although we had been invited out, we would politely decline all invites and just have a relaxing Christmas for a change. We had never seen The Queen’s Speech before; well we might have seen it but we definitely hadn’t heard it. We had never been able to watch any Christmas telly. One, because of the noise and two, because I was always stuck in the kitchen cooking.
Well, this year was different. I had breakfast in bed, cooked and delivered by Delicious Husband, and we had something very simple for lunch. So simple was our Christmas lunch, that I hardly dare tell you what it was. But because I know that you of all people won’t judge me – I’ll tell you — we had egg and chips. Yes, that’s right, egg and chips for Christmas dinner, and with lashings of bread and butter. So much bread and butter that I have to confess that I was a little ill afterwards.
But egg and chips is not what I want to tell you about. I want to talk about presents. Have you ever had that sinking feeling when someone hands you a gift and you know without even opening it that you are going to hate it. Well, let me tell you, I have! And on more than one occasion. But it doesn’t have to be the end of the world, thanks to re-gifting.
Re-gifting is a wonderful thing, if you get it right. You have to have a good memory though, or you might fall foul, as I once did. I’ll set the scene. A few weeks before, it had been my birthday. I had been incredibly blessed with some truly wonderful gifts, and one very ugly address book. When I opened it I remember thinking, ‘do people still use these, now that we all have smart phones?’ But I smiled politely and put it with the other gifts. Then when everyone had left, I carefully placed it in the re-gift box I have in one of my wardrobes.
That was the end of that. Several weeks later, I was sat drinking tea in the kitchen with mother, when she said, ‘Must go, Mildred Small has just pulled up. It’s her birthday today and we are going out for lunch.’
‘Mother, why didn’t you tell me that it was her birthday? Ask her to come in and I’ll go and get her gift.’
‘How can you go and get her gift, if you didn’t know that it was her birthday?’
“I knew that it was any day now, I just didn’t know which day.” I lied.
I ran up and got out my trusty re-gifting box. I plucked out a gift, wrapped it, wrote a card and headed down to present them to Mildred Small.
“Annie darling, it’s wonderful, and so thoughtful of you to remember.” Mildred Small smiled as she admired her gift.
“Oh well, thanks for the tea Annie, we must dash,” mother said rising from the table.
As they walked down the drive, I gave myself a big old pat on the back.
Pat on the back, that is, until I overheard Mildred Small say to mother, “Whatever you do dear, never give Annie an address book for her birthday, because she will give it right back to you on yours!”
Yikes! Anyway, it gave D.H a jolly good laugh when he got home from work.
“Annie, you never re-gift the things I buy you, do you?”
“Certainly not! You have impeccable taste.”
It’s a good job I’m not Catholic, one little white lie is bad enough, but two on the same day. It would be straight to the confessional for me.
Anyway, this Christmas was wonderful, and I can say hand on heart, not one gift bought for me found it’s way into the re-gift box!