Christmas 2010

We're standing in Boots, looking at the makeup. Well, I'm not. But Herself is talking some coded talk of reference numbers with some young wan in black and teeth and nail polish about foundation and breeze blocks and mortar and the like. My brain is on "Idle" and it's making a slight "blid-de-poodle-do" noise in my head.

"Now," says Herself, as we're thanking the young wan for serving us whatever it was in a very small bag that cost a very large mortgage. "I'd love to know how much that bottle of perfume is. I used to wear it when we started going out. Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember!" I retort, rolling back my male nasal memory reel. Let's see... Bacon, cat poo, Brut aftershave, toilet cleaner, air freshener and peanut breath. "I'm surprised you have to ask me!"

I make a very small mental note of the bottle shape, size, colour... but something shiny or curvy or stamped with the words "Black & Decker" immediately wipes it from existence for me.

It's around 4pm on the very last day of the week that I am ever going to go out of the house again before Christmas and Herself announces by SMS:

"You remember the new mobile phones we got each other? Well I got you something extra. Because I wanted to."

"Me too" I text back with that sinking feeling as memory cogs shear off teeth in my lumbering brain.

I text Herself's Second Daughter.

"Is Slumbering Nettles the perfume yer Ma used to wear when we started going out?"

"It is," she sends back.

"Thank feck! I'm just within range of the chemist's and I wasn't entirely sure."

"It's a stressful time for men," she sympathises.

And so on Christmas day we exchange our new mobile phones and I get my extra pressie excitedly and totally unexpectedly Herself unwraps a bottle of Slumbering Nettles.

She takes a whiff.

"It's given me a big whoosh back! Why did I ever stop wearing it?"

"Me too!" I grin.

Herself dabs a bit on and we enjoy the next ten minutes of pressie opening.

Then she starts to sneeze.

Than I start to sneeze.

The cats sneeze.

The birds on the bird feeders make little "tichoo!" noises out in the garden.

We watch Indiana Jones through gritted teeth and with the aid of boxes of Kleenex. I don't remember the Temple of Doom being a weepy before, but in our house it is.

The cats refuse to come into the sitting room, as they can't sleep for the microscopic sneezes coming from the mites living in the carpet.

"Do you like you pressies then?" I ask, though Herself is now just a blur through tear-filled eyes.

"I do. Lovely!" she says, dabbing two handed at her face.

"Me too!" I say with no end of enthusiasm.

Ah, love!

There's always next year's pressie to think of.