O.K., let us be charitable. Let us be understanding. Let us assume you are not some wretched old skinflint or skinflintess who never buys anyone anything except at Christmas, and only then because you want to get back the socks/tights/hankies you’re too mean to buy the rest of the time. Let us accept that you’re not, either, some wild spendthriftess or spendthrift who went so berserk at Christmas that you’ve been staying off bankruptcy ever since.
So you are, you really are, going to buy your Mum/Dad/husband/wife/brother/sister/daughter/son/nephew/niece/
extra special choochee face/lovely huggy honey buns/ something resembling an Easter present? Such as what?
Perhaps a lovely big chocolate egg? Well, maybe. But if you’re giving it to a lady person, all that will happen is that she will sit and look at it all holiday, thinking if I just even start unwrapping that thing, every dietary effort I’ve been making since turning pear-shaped over Christmas will be well out of the window and I’ll be so solidly back in mega-calorie land that the summer beaches won’t so much see me draping my gorgeous bikini-clad frame over the sand as being mistaken for a beached blue whale and floated out to sea. Four days of solid kids off school and she will succumb, return to the avocado profile and hate your miserable tempting ass for ever afterwards.
And if you’re giving it to a male person, he will think what kind of a dork does this person think I am and throw it over the fence for next door’s dog to gobble up and then spend the next fortnight crapping all over next door’s house, garden and car, and didn’t next door have it coming to them? Disharmony, boundary disputes, possibly neighbour-cide to follow, and you marked down as the great dozy trouble-making sod of the street.
And if you’re giving it to anyone under the age of nine, they will save it up as a special treat and then eat it all at once, meaning your best cushions/sheets/towels will finish up looking like someone’s just wiped their bums on them and you will forget yourself so much that all your liberal parenting ideas will go right out of the window and you will sock them one and thereby give them a complex which will end in them hating you for all eternity.
Perhaps a real Easter bunny? Well, maybe. But whoever receives it will then have to buy a warren or hutch or something, spend a fortune on lettuce and carrots, take it to vets to be inoculated against several dozen rabbity diseases at £100 a shot, and then, as soon as he or she leaves a garden gate open, see Floppily being dragged off by his ears by one of the local fox population, to be reduced to a bag of bones in the back yard, thereby causing you to have foxes sniffing around for ever afterwards and a RSPCA prosecution on its way for summer.
How’s about a collection of 25 prize-winning stories in a convenient e-book, which will start the recipient of it on a great literary journey towards Booker prizes and Hollywood blockbusters and make then turn somersaults every time you walk into the room for ever afterwards? Yeah? www.bruceharris.org , book called ‘First Flame’, and yours at minimal cost, because I’m not as bothered about the money as I am about securing your eternal happiness.
Or perhaps a collection of published and prize-winning poems which will set your relative/beloved off on a verse-making odyssey which could see them finish up writing so many award-winning lyrics that their living room walls will consist entirely of gold discs and Grammys. Yeah? www.bruceharris.org , book called ‘Raised Voices’, at even minimaler cost. No, please, no profusion of thanks, it would be all too embarrassing. Happy Easter, and don’t eat too many eggs; remember the wisdom of our French friends: an oeuf is an ouef.