Mini Shopaholic
Page 5
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‘Now, love, will you take a look at my present for Jess?’ Mum rootles in a bag and anxiously produces a wooden box. ‘Is it all right?’
Jess is my sister. My half-sister, I should say. She’s coming back from Chile in a few days’ time, so we’re going to have a second Christmas Day for her and Tom, with turkey and presents and everything! Tom is Jess’s boyfriend. He’s the only son of Janice and Martin and I’ve known him all my life and he’s very …
Well. He’s really …
Anyway, the point is, they love each other. And sweaty hands probably don’t matter so much in Chile, do they?
It’s fantastic that they’re coming over, especially as it means we can finally, finally have Minnie’s christening. (Jess is going to be a godmother.) But I can see why Mum’s stressed out. It’s tricky buying presents for Jess. She doesn’t like anything that’s new or expensive or contains plastic or parabens or comes in a bag that isn’t made of hemp.
‘I’ve bought this.’ Mum opens the lid of the box to reveal an array of posh glass bottles nestling in straw. ‘It’s shower gel,’ she adds quickly. ‘Nothing for the bath. We don’t want World War Three again!’
There was this slight diplomatic incident last time Jess was over. We were celebrating her birthday and Janice gave her a present of bubble bath, whereupon Jess launched into a ten-minute lecture on how much water a bath used and how people in the West were obsessed by cleanliness and everyone should just take a five-minute shower once every week like Jess and Tom did.
Janice and Martin had just had a jacuzzi installed, so this didn’t go down very well.
‘What do you think?’ says Mum.
‘Dunno.’ I peer cautiously at the label on the box. ‘Does it have additives? Does it exploit people?’
‘Oh, love, I just don’t know.’ Mum looks gingerly at the box as though it’s a nuclear armament. ‘It says “all-natural”,’ she ventures at last. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I think it’ll be OK.’ I nod. ‘But don’t tell her you bought it in a shopping mall. Tell her you bought it from a small independent cooperative.’
‘Good idea.’ Mum brightens. ‘And I’ll wrap it in newspaper. What have you got her?’
‘I bought her a yoga mat hand-made by peasant women in Guatemala,’ I can’t help saying smugly. ‘It funds village agricultural projects and it uses recycled plastic components from computers.’
‘Becky!’ says Mum admiringly. ‘How did you find that?’
‘Oh … research.’ I shrug airily.
I won’t admit I Googled ‘green worthy present recycle environment lentils giftwrap’.
‘Kiss-mas! Kiss-MAS!’ Minnie is dragging at my hand so hard I think she’ll pull my arm off.
‘Do the Wishing Well with Minnie, love,’ suggests Mum. ‘I’ll keep your place.’
I dump the ponies on the buggy and lead Minnie towards the Wishing Well. It’s surrounded by fake silver birch trees with fairies hanging down from the branches and if it weren’t for the screeching kids everywhere it would be quite magical.
The wishing cards are laid out on a fake tree stump that you can use as a table. I pick up a card, which has ‘Christmas Wish’ printed in swirly green writing at the top, and give one of the felt-tips to Minnie.
God, I remember writing letters to Father Christmas when I was little. They used to get quite long and involved, with illustrations and pictures cut out of catalogues, just in case he got confused.
A pair of pink-faced girls of about ten are posting their wishes, all giggly and whispery, and just the sight of them gives me a rush of nostalgia. It seems wrong not to join in. I might jinx it or something.
Dear Father Christmas, I find myself writing on a card. It’s Becky here again. I pause, and think for a bit, and then quickly scribble down a few things.
I mean, only about three. I’m not greedy or anything.
Minnie is scribbling earnestly all over her card, and has got felt-tip on her hands and her nose.
‘I’m sure Father Christmas will understand what you mean,’ I say gently, taking it from her. ‘Let’s post it in the well.’
One by one I drop the two cards in. Tiny fake snowflakes are drifting down from above and ‘Winter Wonderland’ is being piped out of a nearby speaker and I suddenly feel so Christmassy I can’t help closing my eyes, clenching Minnie’s hand and wishing. You never know …
‘Becky?’ A deep voice penetrates my thoughts and my eyes snap open. Luke is standing in front of me, his dark hair and navy coat dusted with fake snow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Too late I realize I’ve been fervently mouthing ‘Please … please …’ with my eyes squeezed shut.
Jess is my sister. My half-sister, I should say. She’s coming back from Chile in a few days’ time, so we’re going to have a second Christmas Day for her and Tom, with turkey and presents and everything! Tom is Jess’s boyfriend. He’s the only son of Janice and Martin and I’ve known him all my life and he’s very …
Well. He’s really …
Anyway, the point is, they love each other. And sweaty hands probably don’t matter so much in Chile, do they?
It’s fantastic that they’re coming over, especially as it means we can finally, finally have Minnie’s christening. (Jess is going to be a godmother.) But I can see why Mum’s stressed out. It’s tricky buying presents for Jess. She doesn’t like anything that’s new or expensive or contains plastic or parabens or comes in a bag that isn’t made of hemp.
‘I’ve bought this.’ Mum opens the lid of the box to reveal an array of posh glass bottles nestling in straw. ‘It’s shower gel,’ she adds quickly. ‘Nothing for the bath. We don’t want World War Three again!’
There was this slight diplomatic incident last time Jess was over. We were celebrating her birthday and Janice gave her a present of bubble bath, whereupon Jess launched into a ten-minute lecture on how much water a bath used and how people in the West were obsessed by cleanliness and everyone should just take a five-minute shower once every week like Jess and Tom did.
Janice and Martin had just had a jacuzzi installed, so this didn’t go down very well.
‘What do you think?’ says Mum.
‘Dunno.’ I peer cautiously at the label on the box. ‘Does it have additives? Does it exploit people?’
‘Oh, love, I just don’t know.’ Mum looks gingerly at the box as though it’s a nuclear armament. ‘It says “all-natural”,’ she ventures at last. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I think it’ll be OK.’ I nod. ‘But don’t tell her you bought it in a shopping mall. Tell her you bought it from a small independent cooperative.’
‘Good idea.’ Mum brightens. ‘And I’ll wrap it in newspaper. What have you got her?’
‘I bought her a yoga mat hand-made by peasant women in Guatemala,’ I can’t help saying smugly. ‘It funds village agricultural projects and it uses recycled plastic components from computers.’
‘Becky!’ says Mum admiringly. ‘How did you find that?’
‘Oh … research.’ I shrug airily.
I won’t admit I Googled ‘green worthy present recycle environment lentils giftwrap’.
‘Kiss-mas! Kiss-MAS!’ Minnie is dragging at my hand so hard I think she’ll pull my arm off.
‘Do the Wishing Well with Minnie, love,’ suggests Mum. ‘I’ll keep your place.’
I dump the ponies on the buggy and lead Minnie towards the Wishing Well. It’s surrounded by fake silver birch trees with fairies hanging down from the branches and if it weren’t for the screeching kids everywhere it would be quite magical.
The wishing cards are laid out on a fake tree stump that you can use as a table. I pick up a card, which has ‘Christmas Wish’ printed in swirly green writing at the top, and give one of the felt-tips to Minnie.
God, I remember writing letters to Father Christmas when I was little. They used to get quite long and involved, with illustrations and pictures cut out of catalogues, just in case he got confused.
A pair of pink-faced girls of about ten are posting their wishes, all giggly and whispery, and just the sight of them gives me a rush of nostalgia. It seems wrong not to join in. I might jinx it or something.
Dear Father Christmas, I find myself writing on a card. It’s Becky here again. I pause, and think for a bit, and then quickly scribble down a few things.
I mean, only about three. I’m not greedy or anything.
Minnie is scribbling earnestly all over her card, and has got felt-tip on her hands and her nose.
‘I’m sure Father Christmas will understand what you mean,’ I say gently, taking it from her. ‘Let’s post it in the well.’
One by one I drop the two cards in. Tiny fake snowflakes are drifting down from above and ‘Winter Wonderland’ is being piped out of a nearby speaker and I suddenly feel so Christmassy I can’t help closing my eyes, clenching Minnie’s hand and wishing. You never know …
‘Becky?’ A deep voice penetrates my thoughts and my eyes snap open. Luke is standing in front of me, his dark hair and navy coat dusted with fake snow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Too late I realize I’ve been fervently mouthing ‘Please … please …’ with my eyes squeezed shut.
