All this talk of gifts this week has got me thinking.
What do I want for Christmas? And the scary thing is, I'm not sure I want anything.
This is a revolting development (1). I've always been able to think of things I want. Normally there would be a couple of dozen books I fancied, at the very least. But the fact is, I have so many books on the bookshelves at home that they've long since left the shelves and started filling window sills, the tops of wardrobes and huge wedges of the floor in the far room. I now see it as some slow-motion alien invasion. One day I'm going to open the door to the back room and they're going to fall on me. Crushed to death by Zadie Smith. There are worse ways to go, I suppose.
Still, it means I don't need any more this Christmas. And who bothers with CDs now? Even if I did, I've nothing but a laptop and the car CD player to play them on now. DVDs? I've got half a dozen box sets from the last couple of Christmases that haven't been watched yet.
Cologne? I've got a pretty full bottle of Paul Smith on the bedside table, as well as an as-yet unopened bottle of Aqua di Parma (my favourite) and a couple of others whose names I can't remember but which smell a little like a horse has urinated into a bottle, said bottle has then been buried for a year in a mountain of rancid stilton, dug out, packaged in a nice cardboard box and presented to me. Thanks, Auntie Susan (2). Cufflinks? I've already too many for my cufflink box. I've even got a couple of scarves left and I lose a scarf once a week (3). What does that leave? Just toffee, I reckon.
No, I hate to say it, but I seem to have arrived at that moment in life when I've got everything I need. I have come to that point my mum reached 20 years ago. The one where when you asked her what she wanted she'd answer: "There's nothing, really."
"What?" I'd always say. "Not even a Rod Stewart sings George Formby CD or something? You like Rod Stewart."
"No," she'd say. "Just get me something you'd like."
That used to annoy the hell out of me, but now I feel I understand where she was coming from.
I mean, admittedly, were you to give me a couple of million quid, a Vermeer painting and a house designed by Mies van der Rohe I wouldn't turn you away.
But I don't think my family has that sort of money. And J would only consider moving into a Mies van der Rohe house if it had sufficient storage. And plenty of bookshelves.
FOOTNOTES
[1] To quote the esteemed Daffy Duck.
[2] NB I don't actually have an Auntie Susan.
[3] The most recent was a grey checked one by Johnstons of Elgin. Lovely it was. If you find it ...
Twitter: @teddyjamieson
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