Sunday, 9 December 2012

Round Robin Rage...

Never has my writing been so frenzied.  And I’m not talking about the latest novel either.  It’s the Christmas cards.  And writing the annual Round Robin letter that accompanies them.  My daughter hasn’t even started her cards yet.  She’s still on the Christmas shopping bit, as I know to my cost.  Literally.  Earlier this week she asked, ‘Can you take me to Bluewater this evening?  I need to buy stuff.’
          Now shopping is fun only when you are (a) spending money on you and (b) actually have spare cash to spend.  There is nothing more boring than trailing a teenager going into shops that are as interesting as...gosh...a football match (sorry Mr V).
          Having saved up a small fortune, Eleanor promptly blew the lot on her beau.  ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked holding up a polo shirt.  Now I’m not being funny, but in Primark I swear to God you can pick up the same polo shirt for a fiver.  The one she was holding up was indeed a fifty.  And all because it had a little motif hovering over the wearer’s left nipple that signified it was...let me drop my voice an octave to signify respect...designer.  The thing that really gets me about designer stuff like this, is that it’s still made in China, it’s still rubbish quality and it still looks ordinary.
          My daughter reverently picked up the garment and went off to the cash till.  Whereupon a man with umpteen piercings, fake tan and a hair-do that defied gravity grabbed it and stuffed it into a bag any old how.
          ‘Excuse me,’ I quavered, ‘but that piece of material cost fifty five pounds. Therefore I’d like it folded neatly.’  I tipped the bag upside down and deposited the polo shirt onto the counter.  Eleanor looked horrified.  Yes, embarrassing parent alert.  But frankly if shop assistants want to work in over-the-top shops, they should give an over-the-top service.  Never mind folding said garment neatly, what about a bit of bowing and scraping too?
          We eventually left the shop...Eleanor with a bright red face, and the shop assistant having the vapours.  ‘Are we done?’ I asked.  ‘Not yet,’ my daughter replied, ‘I need to find something to go with the polo shirt.’  Groan.
          An hour later a second purchase had been made.  And then, just when I hoped we were finally finished, I was dragged into Clintons.  Time to buy a romantic Christmas card.  ‘What about this one?’ Eleanor thrust a pair of billing turtle doves at my face.  ‘Lovely,’ I replied.  ‘No, it’s rubbish,’ Eleanor put it back in its slot.  ‘Ah.  This one is nice.  No it’s not.  Oh look, this one’s better.  Um, not sure about the words.  Oooh, now we’re talking.  Oh, perhaps not.’  And so it went on.  Until literally every Christmas card with the headline boyfriend had been examined and exclaimed over.  If I’d known she was going to take forever, I’d have brought my own Christmas cards along and parked up in a corner to carry on writing them out.
          Thankfully everything is now signed, sealed and almost delivered.  It’s just that wretched Round Robin letter that remains.  Which reminds me.  What do sheep write in their Christmas cards?  Merry Christmas to ewe...

1 comment:

  1. I have not written one card yet, so you should be feeling very smug and organised, if you ask me!!!