As any singer will tell you, Christmas isn't about celebrating the birth of the saviour x many millennia ago, it is about singing carols in four or eight part harmony and then drinking wine to celebrate. I am enjoying singing so much at the moment that I wasn't even the most vocal complainer when we rehearsed a single piece for over an hour last night. And tonight is the third of our four carol concerts. I am VERY EXCITED, not just because we get to sing wonderful festive music and make people feel joyous, but also because there is a celebrity reader on the programme and although I have it on reliable authority that he is an absolute unmitigating idiot in real life, and married with children, I fancy him like mad (or at least I do in the TV programme that I've seen him in) and although I will try not to stare up at him with visible beams of hopeless love streaming out from my eyes while he is doing his reading, I think I will fail miserably. Ah well. A lovely boy with a flat cap emailed me today so I am feeling perky on the romance front.
Of course, the other thing that Christmas is about, apart from singing, is presents. And the problem with Christmas shopping is that I just find more and more things that I want to buy for myself. I was incredibly close to spending £190 on a Pakistani quilt on a US online store at about 09:08 this morning, having clicked there from a site where I was looking for presents for my mother. I am yet to buy a single gift for anyone. Unimpressive. I imagine that most only children revel at Christmastime, only having to buy presents for their parents, but present-buying is literally my favourite thing to do in the world ever and I am award-winningly brilliant at it, so not having anyone else to buy for other than two adults who routinely take back every single thing they are given by the other at Christmas is a bit like being a world class opera singer and living in a prison where the inmates are, without exception, deaf. Consequently, whenever I get a boyfriend I shower them with incredible gifts that I've been seen in shops previously and filed under 'brilliant gift idea for fictional boyfriend'. Then I sit back and wait to be showered in a similar fashion, but end up having to cry with gratitude when he books tickets for the cinema. Life is so unfair. I asked my father what he wants, and he said 'Nothing' and then requested that I don't spend any money on him. It's impossible that we are related. I mean, obviously I don't NEED anything. I am so far from needing things that I could lock down into some nuclear bunker for around ten years without repeating an outfit. But once I've seen the Pakistani quilt, it is all I can think about. My bedroom suddenly looks barren without it and I will toss and turn restlessly until it lies atop my duvet, adding a £190 sheen to my previously stark and boring (read: cluttered and frantic) sleeping set-up. Hmmm.
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