Hurrah, it is that time of year again. Yes – the annual hand-wringing exchange of emails between me and my brother James about what to get our parents for Christmas.
James: And our father. What shall purchase for him this year? Golf paraphernalia? Or liquorice?
Me: No. I have better idea. A tattoo on his arm with the web address of internet movie database. So that each time he sees someone he recognises on telly, he can look it up in seconds, instead of saying “Oooh, I know that person. What have they been in?” Which is like clarion call to all Nadins within 100-mile radius to then spend hours in agonising thought to remember which advert that bloke on the left in Little Dorrit was once in.
James: Genius. And also a signed certificate to vouch that it does not constitute cheating.
Me: I will forge one immediately. What about Mum? Apparently she wants to ride in balloon.
James: Hmm. But does Which do a guide to Hot Air Balloon trips? Do not want to pick wrong one and risk eye-rolling and lesson in how to shop sensibly. Remember what happened with the toaster.
Me: You are right (shudders). Elizabeth Shaw mints and a nice book?
James: My thoughts exactly. And you, sister?
Me: A fortnight in New York, a film deal and a monkey.
James: Or maybe a Take That album?
Me: Lovely. And for you? A box of Terry’s All Gold, but only the strawberry ones?
James: Ah. Heaven.