It's the thought that counts...apparently

Being grumpy isn't the domain or sole right of the older generations... trust me, I've been afflicted with a growing grumpiness for several years now, and I'm only 35. So I reckon I need an outlet, and this blog is it. A little chance to rant about what's on my mind and give a voice to those younger grumps out there who share my views and experiences! Please do feel free to comment - but don't be rude - or you'll only get me going, and no-one wants that! So here we go...

My first rant is on the subject of birthdays. Very topical, since my latest one was yesterday. Yeah, yeah, yeah... happy birthday to me and all that jazz. Only my birthdays have the habit of making me miserable...and, by extension, a number of the people closest to me. The fact of the matter is, the only thing I ever want for my birthday is a little bit of time and thought - it doesn't have to cost the earth, I don't need mountains of gifts. I just want something a little bit special, that I wouldn't buy myself, or do for myself. But that's beyond the realms of capability for some folk. Last year my husband bought me a saucepan. Correction, a milk pan. Granted, I made the mistake of adding it as a last thought item on a very long list, but as more of a 'oh, here, have a little extra on the side' rather than as the main course. But that's what I ended up with. A milkpan. The resulting meltdown scared even myself. It was a guarantee that the same mistake would not be made twice.

Only, this year's offering made last year look like present heaven. I got a board game. I don't play board games. Unless, that is, I'm pinned into a corner at friends' when we're round for dinner and the wine's flowed enough for me to lose the ability to formulate a cogent argument against engaging in such an activity. I don't like the competitiveness board games build in me - I become thirsty for blood and must...will, win and the emotions make me physically uncomfortable. This particular board game, based on the films (and books) of Twilight, was particularly perplexing as no-one around me is especially into Twilight - very few of my friends have engaged their inner teenager to quite the same extent as I have on the subject - but then, I hardly recognise myself as a Twi-hard fan. So it looks like I'll be playing it on my own, then. Fab.

I dream of a little blue box secured with white organza ribbon with a little twinkle placed inside (anything from Tiffany's, for those that don't recognise the branding). First world problems, I know - I wholly recognise how selfish I sound. I got a present! For my birthday! Only I'm squinnying about it being the wrong one. I have two beautiful, healthy children and we all have just about perfect health. My back could be a bit better and I could always do with more sleep, yar-da, yar-da. But all should be absolutely spot on, perfect, tranquil and wonderful. If it wasn't for Maslow's hierarchy of needs, I guess.

I broached the subject of bad gifts with the breakfast club ladies and it appears, after all my upset, that I do actually do quite well on the present front. One lady received a Harrods bought and wrapped electrical extension lead from her husband for her birthday. I hope it was long enough to strangle him with. The other received a wrapped, yet empty, Harrods plastic bag as a Secret Santa from a family member. A plastic bag. The giver of the gift had bought something from Harrods, stuck it in a plastic bag, then wrapped the plastic bag as a gift. Words fail me.

I know it's the thought that counts. But when the thought is so warped, so unfathomable, so dislocated from anything logical, I do start to wonder. Men invented and designed jewelery so that they never needed to think about gifts or worry about getting the wrong present ever again. Occam's razor, lads - when in doubt, the most obvious answer is usually right. Just go with that one and you'll be fine.