‘Tis Better to Give than to Receive

A number of Christmases ago, an elderly friend of mine that I have known for many years invited me in for a snifter of Baileys’ Irish cream. As I was shedding my coat and stamping the snow off my boots at the door, she was already ranting about the price of cheese, the rudeness of that woman at the bank and the tardiness of a new letter-carrier who also had the audacity to cut across her lawn. In December. If you are imagining a sweet-natured, gentle older lady please stop now.  This person once literally chased one of those conserving-energy types with a clipboard up to the corner of the street, shouting the F word and advising him not to come back.

And, I remain very confident that he did not.

Anyway, in keeping with the season and the arch curmudgeonette that she is, ‘Edna’, (not her real name) had a card table set up piled high with presents that she had been given thus far.

“Did you ever, ever, in all your life see such a load of old shit?” she inquired in a tone which invited no reply. “What do I want with any of this?” She swept her hand over a veritable cornucopia of items which I had to admit were not inspired: there was a plastic bottle of inky-blue “bubble bath” obviously cheap and re-gifted since its bent box suggested that a small rodent had recently tried to shave away the price tag; the longest and ugliest cardigan – in a shade somewhere between mustard and cat vomit – that came down way past the knee (and would likely grow longer with subsequent washings); various boxes of chocolates, dusty white with age and a multitude of socks best suited to geriatric hockey players with foot deformities.

“Anyway,” she smiled, leaning in. “I knew you’d be coming over so help yourself to anything you like. Anything! I’d love you to have it. Go on! Have a look.”

I drained my Bailey’s and set the glass down. This was the last thing I wanted to do but Edna was never far away from what my British family would call “taking the hump” so polite refusal was never an option. I began to dig through the trove, discarding several pink, winceyette night gowns and a pair of gigantic mittens till finally I uncovered a charming little basket filled with French soaps, a small globe of homemade pear jam and a twist of cellophane containing candied ginger (a supposed favourite of Edna’s).

Strangely though, the jam had a label with my writing on it …

“Take it all!” Edna advised, quickly fishing out a plastic bag for me. “Bunch of old tat. Why would anyone think I’d want it?”

I took my present back, smiled weakly and really, could not think of a suitable answer …

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