writing to santa

Yesterday I had a message from my brother saying that this year there was no point expecting a Christmas present from his direction. Despite being supposed to be devastated by this significant reduction in the number of parcels I would now receive, I rejoiced the news.

I had earlier struggled to come up with something I would need. My mother had repeatedly asked me the items on my wish list, which until then had remained empty. However, there was no escaping this parental treat as I assume that even after I have celebrated my 60th birthday my mother will still ensure that my siblings and I receive in equal terms and hence all wear matching socks. She will also be phoning me on a daily basis to make sure I haven’t got into trouble and to guarantee that she is the first one to know if my latest (and most likely failed) first date had any potential to turn into a relationship. Unless she has by then given up hope. Luckily she accepts vacuum cleaners and packets of porridge as a suitable gift so I can always keep asking for something I actually need.

When I moved, not so many months ago, I did a through cleaning of cupboards, under bed boxes and the lot. The number of bags I took to recycling and charity was beyond my counting skills (the number of fingers in my hands) but in spite of my serious attempts to get rid of clutter I have now found myself with another few plastic bags full off stuff to be taken to the charity shop still before the holidays. How was this possible?

So, whilst ten and a bit years ago my wish list sent to Father Christmas could hardly fit on one page it now had moved to negative. So what do I want for Christmas? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could not, under any circumstances come up with any”thing” anyone could buy and I would need or want.

I don’t need anything. No clothes. No pots. No books. No nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

My brother, in an additional message told me that he would get a flight for Christmas. For himself. To London.

This is when the party kicked off in my little head. I celebrated silently in my universe and started making mental notes of all the things we could do and see when he was over.

That IS what I want. Don’t waste time going through the shops but send an email instead. And tell me how you are. A lot less stressful and you can enjoy a nice hot drink while typing. Or if you feel like going on a shopping spree, get yourself a free few days and come over. Or if you desperately need to buy me/someone/anyone something/anything get me a coffee – but find the time for it first.

I seriously think that as soon as your age does not have a “teen” attached to it anymore the only present you really need and want is: A. digestible and B. comes together with the donor (C. is from your mother).

Despite my aversion to commercialised holidays and other events (whether be Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s day and the lot) cards still rate high on my list – thoughtful and a nice change to the constant stream of bills. And phone calls. Easy, simple and very very easy to store – no space required.