Ghosts of Christmas present? Never again

I’M definitely a recidivist. Once again I’m doing what I swore last year I wouldn’t do again. Ever. But I’m afraid it will have a devastating effect on them if I don’t do it. The Christmas stockings for the thirty-something-year-old offspring. I feel sorry for them because there was never a big extended family. Aunts and uncles and grandparents to give them little gifts at Christmas.

So I made up for it with stockings, the cost of which rose into hundreds. And given that my pecuniary circumstances are dire and always have been, I really should realise that by now they should be over the trauma of not having lots of aunts and uncles and grandparents and I shouldn’t be wasting my money on rubbish. I rush around buying pyjamas, underwear, socks, golf balls, books and make-up. The make-up is for the girl.

And other stuff that will never be used. I worry about the sizes of the underwear. If I get large will there be a backlash. “Jesus, Mum what size do you think I am.” I’ll wrap them all individually. I don’t actually put them into stockings. They wouldn’t fit. I spend hours wrapping and labelling them. They feel them and look at me with that look and say things like “more socks?” I don’t know whether or not they ever wear any of these things. I’m afraid to ask.

They don’t know how lucky they are to be living in this day and age. My father used to get Old Spice every year from us. My mother would take it back, put it in a cupboard and we’d give it to him again the following year. He feigned surprise every time. Poor man.

Next year I’m going to suggest that they are old enough to reverse the whole performance and I’ll be the one who gets the stockings. If they buy me any ‘large’ knickers I’ll have a conniption.