I’m making a list. I’m checking it twice.
And for a third time because apparently checking the list isn’t enough - you actually have to go and buy stuff.
It’s not like I haven’t tried, but the former shopaholic in me seems to have died and every time I enter a shop I sort of wither away inside and run off for an overpriced coffee instead.
This something we all do without thinking about whether we will actually be at home to receive a selection of the world’s most exotic soaps for gran, novelty socks for dad, reindeer slippers for your dear loved one and a full-height Totem poll for the niece (it seemed like a great idea after a few wines).
Luckily some of the neighbours will.
So all hail the real heroes of the consumerist shallow-fest that is Christmas,.
First there is retired brickie Keith on the corner with his usefully large hall for storage and handy ability to pick up parcels weighing more than his own body weight.
Then Becky the self-employed blogger who never leaves her computer or front room and welcomes the human interaction of the bloke from DHL with a weary smile.
And let’s not forget Dave, who works 12-hour shifts on nights so is always at home in the day just metres away from the front door in his warm, soft,bed ready to sign for critical deliveries of a plug to go with a mechanical toy digger or the 18th alternate new year sparkly dress which probably won’t fit.
And we must not forget Alan the delivery driver himself who, unlike all the others, makes the effort to knock on doors until he gets a volunteer, instead of slinging the parcel into the wheelie bin where it will get taken away the next day if you don’t spot the small card among the junk mail on the carpet.
So, the Keiths, Beckys, Daves and Alans of the world - we salute you.
You are the modern Festive Angels and we appreciate you.
Happy Christmas all.