The Gift of Giving

As far as Christmas festivities go, beyond using them as an excuse to skive off work and drink before noon, I'm not really that interested. Ever since my mother died, it's lacked a certain je n'ai c'est quois, if you know what I mean. In fact, this year I'll be spending most of it on radio, speaking to other depressed and lonely family-less sad sacks, after which I plan to ride my bicycle to my very excellent house and drink cocktails with Lula over some highly competitive scrabble.

Christmas, that old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be.

But every old grey mare has a little bit of lustre left in her, even if it comes in the most unexpected places. And so I want to share this cute little glimpse into my relationship with my father, which has gone from strength to strength since my mother died (an ironic upside I suppose), and the Christmas gift he assembled for me.

Yesterday, I dropped the Old Man off at the airport so he could travel to the sunny climes of Queensland. He casually mentioned that there was a bag in the back of his car - which I shall be enjoying very much for the next two weeks, hello beach etc - with a few things in it that I might need or like. Being the gift fiend that I am, I loitered illegally in the parking bay to unpack it that instant while he hovered about in the exceptionally cute manner of someone manly and tough who hopes that their thoughtfulness has pleased someone.

Here, in an astoundingly astute demonstration of how well he knows me without even having to think about it, is what my father gave me for Christmas:

1.The Practical

I, like approximately 95% of the rest of the thinking world, love coffee. I also love guests on summer mornings. Ergo, a coffee plunger that services six is rather practical and perfect in every way.

It occurs to me also that my father might think it a nice thing to have in case I have 'company' over, because it is his desire that I become married post haste to a dashing man so that I may a) avoid spinsterdom and/or suffocating under the crushing weight of my fading looks i.e. Miss Havisham; and b) find someone else to deal with my irresponsible approach to finances i.e. "Don't look at me Tony Jones, she's your problem now."

But at least while Tony Jones fretted over the woeful state of my bank account, and the copious number of bills I 'handle' by 'not opening', he'd have delicious fresh coffee from a plunger for six. We'd need that when our friends Maxine, Denton, Safran, Myf and Hamish B came around. (The observant will note that's seven people, but Hamish B is a tea person. Darjeeling, if you must know.)

2. The Feminine

Because I was raised in the exotic locales of the Middle East, I have grown accustomed to my father passing through international airports and more importantly the Duty Free shops found therein. Hence, I have been fortunate enough my entire life to be kept in a steady supply of perfume and various other accoutrements of womanhood.

Perhaps to expedite the aforementioned task of finding a husband, my father continues to bestow upon me the gift of Smelling Winsome. Regardless of motive, I like especially that this satisfies the more feminine element of gift giving to your daughter - having taken care of the practical aspect with the coffee plunger, I am now free to waft about my kitchen in a cloud of deliciousness while brewing legal drugs for my friends and future significant other.

3. The Absolutely Effing Necessary

When your father gives you a gigantic jar containing $218.65 in ten and twenty cent pieces, you realise instinctively that he a) knows you better than you thought; b) thinks you're slightly ridiculous; and c) yearns for the day when his 28 year old daughter will no longer consider a jar containing $218.65 of spare change the financial equivalent of "a lifeboat", or will at least have someone else for whom these problems can become Worrisome.

4. The Card


This I saved until I had safely left the airport, as the Security Guard began throwing his weight around to move me past the hordes of invisible cars attempting to drop off invisible passengers. I expected a heart squeezing declaration of love - something along the lines of 'My dear possum: I'm so proud of you and hope you have a lovely Christmas. Love from Dad x'. What I got was even better though; the icing on the cake of a perfectly insightful Christmas gift:


"Merry Christmas Clementine. Please pay all the bills outstanding particularly any with my name on them. Love Dad."

I'm thinking of framing it.

Happy holidays all xo