Open Writing

“We must get another Coffee Pot, I’ll put it on the list.” My wife was perturbed because of the extra guests expected for Christmas.

We did have another, but made in China, which might explain my “It never pours correctly, splashes all over the table” followed by her “because they only drink tea there and you should wear your other glasses.”

The shopping list was unusually short, but only because we had made two forays to the supermarkets already this week. The volume of traffic caused by building development in the town centre made the journey a frustrating experience, but made bearable by the realisation that this was the last journey before Christmas. I would be able to prune the silver birch and undercoat the kitchen door by teatime.

After twice circling the car park we eventually qualified for our space, consulted the list - coffee pot, collect bread for Christmas, battery for smoke alarm - and headed for the Factory Store which sells a wide range of items, from football shaped radios to spaceship shaped … well, things.

I located the batteries and had time to browse through the DVD collection of old Hollywood films. “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad World” although made in 1963, seemed appropriate in today’s climate. I added it to my wife’s shopping trolley with the bargain coffee cafetiere plunger gift set - incl. four mugs- that ominously had no mention of country of origin.

On the way to the bakery we suddenly remembering that our son might be bringing his current girlfriend. This would require the purchase of a suitable gift and we diverted to the department store.

I switched off by staring blankly at the range of custom luggage, while my wife engaged the attention of the sales assistant at the perfume counter, who she had recognised as Miss Sarah Brown in the local amateur production of “Guys and Dolls.”

“Enjoyed it…drone, drone…a present. No, I don’t know what she likes and she might not even come, I can’t even remember her name.”

Sarah Brown’s “Buy something you would like and then if she doesn’t turn up it’ll come in useful,” seemed to have some perverse logic which appealed to my wife who then had no difficulty in selecting a suitable, if expensive, item. They both seemed to be enjoying some private joke as I entered the required PIN number for my credit card.

“Well, that was easy” and I had to agree.

We called at the bakery for the two large loaves and umpteen rolls and set off back to the car park for the return journey home.

While my wife was unpacking and admiring the cafetiere, I was unpacking and admiring an expensive but empty plastic cover for a DVD, with a space where a disc should have been.

“Yes, I know I should have checked before I left the counter. No I didn’t throw away the receipt and yes I also thought the counter assistants were of a temporary nature. I’ll phone the shop.”

Apparently their policy was to remove CDs,vVideos and DVDs as a security precaution, but surely that's a system that only works if the said items are replaced at the point of sale?

“Easily done, especially when we are busy.”

“Really? Well I am on my way before you get even busier.”

My erstwhile plans lay in ruins, how could I possibly justify another journey? Did we need anything else from town? Bananas, socks, pears, shoe polish?

“You could get your hair cut.” A moot point. I was hoping to last for another fortnight, but agreed it would save on petrol.

This time rather than slowly circling the car park, I took up a strategic and predatory position with the engine running and was rewarded with a space within a few minutes.

The sales assistants seemed cheerful enough as I tendered my receipt and I wondered if they would be back at school in the afternoon on completion of their work experience.

“Easily done.” Especially when we are busy I mouthed but - remembering my wife’s parting shot “…remember it’s Christmas,” - I merely added a softly spoken “Complaints of the Season,” and headed for the barbershop.

This followed a lifetime’s pattern of a discourse on the weather, football and a general acknowledgement that everyone would have a very quiet Christmas spent with the family.

I silently decided next year we would have a complete change, loud, with strangers, in Blackpool, Poole or Hartlepool.

Mission accomplished, I returned home and symbolically locked the garage door.

“You won’t believe this. We should have checked the post before you left.”

Among the junk mail was a card informing us that a package was waiting in the Post Office in town for collection. Apparently it could not be squeezed through the letterbox.

My ‘…we could leave it until tomorrow, as I have no intention of getting the car out again today’ solution proved unacceptable as the package could be of an urgent if not important nature. Besides which, surely I was curious about it’s contents?

After debating the various options it was voted that it could wait until the afternoon, giving me just time to prune the silver birch. I could avoid the traffic by walking to the Post Office and the exercise would do me good.

Later that day I walked into town, easily overtaking the lines of cars with their angry occupants and getting some satisfaction from seeing the gridlock in the town centre. After proving my identity at the Parcel Collection point I was rewarded with a relatively small box, very light in weight and with no return address or discernable postmark. Software? Hardware? The possibilities seemed endless but I decided to give my wife the satisfaction of opening it.

Half an hour later and back home. “Who on earth sent that?” I looked on in surprise as my wife displayed the contents of the package, a large sea-shell that had seen better days.

“It’s from my eldest sister. She says in the letter that a friend of ours dived for it in the Mediterranean.” Which proved to be a minor mystery.

“Ullreeka! I’ve got it.” (This was much later when I was undercoating the kitchen door.''

Just forty years ago while living abroad, we had brought home a number of gifts for the family and the shell was one of them. It had been returned to remind us of those carefree and far-off days.

I could certainly do with a few of those right now.