With our visit to Malaysia imminent, she who must be obeyed decides it is time to take control and informs me that we will be embarking on a mission to wrap the presents this evening, and I should have all intended gifts marshalled at a single point pending her return from work at 1830; thence we will sally forth.
I have always been crap at present wrapping. I never quite manage to cover the gift, the tape is never quite straight, none of the lines are parallel; it always ends up looking like it has been thrown together by a drunk three year old. But in Asia, this is not a problem (the present wrapping that is. Drunk three year olds continue to plague our society). It is not hard to find a counter staffed by ladies with endless patience who will wrap your gifts with care, and the end result is a perfectly wrapped present. Then you lie and say you did it yourself over a period of several days.
So I was keen to oblige she who must be obeyed and, not much later than 1815, I embarked upon a tour of my safe places in search of presents.
My designated safe places are particularly safe because I forget where they are within ten minutes of designating them. Several items of perceived personal value have been lost for months after I put them somewhere safe. I put a couple of hundred Malaysian dollars in a safe place when I went out for the evening. When I came home I had forgotten where I put them. That was 17 years ago. They will turn up one day, slightly devalued.
So unearthing birthday presents, some of which were acquired some months ago and put into a safe place, was a bit of a challenge. The first one I found, I put down somewhere while I went to look for the rest, and then I forgot where I put it. It was a process of finding two gifts, and then losing one which had to be found again. It would have been sad to watch had anyone been watching. It would be convenient to put these memory failings down to old age, but I have always been like this. At least I think I have. I forget.
So when she who must be obeyed flounced through the door, ready to embark upon her wrapping mission, she was unaware of the fifteen minutes of blind panic that had preceded her entrance; all she could see was a slightly sweaty and highly relieved looking husband, guarding a small pile of feeble gifts which needed tarting up with some decent wrapping paper.
So, off to the wrapping girls where presents were assigned to three separate piles depending on whether the recipient was son, son’s girlfriend, or both; and off we went to choose the paper. Or at least, she chose the paper and I nodded earnest assent. Then she started to chose those stupid flowery bow things that people stick on gifts. I tried to persuade her that the intended recipients were not really the sort of people who went for stupid flowery bows; but she was having none of it, and just to emphasise the garishness, she decided there should be ribbon as well.
By the time it was all finished, the gifts had swollen in volume at least threefold thanks to the generous use of oversize boxes; and they were overtly resplendent in shiny coloured paper, ribbons and flowery bows. She who must be obeyed pronounced herself well satisfied with the outcome. I didn’t have the balls to tell her I had remembered another secret place wherein lies another gift which will, at some point, have to be taken through the wrapping process. Or maybe I will just keep it for Christmas.