We stand in the middle of the living room, FP and I, carefully and politely unwrapping our christmas gifts from his parents. We are surrounded by FP's family; his aunties and uncles and his parents eagerly watching our faces as we discover what's beneath the shiny, festive wrapping paper. I hate this part : I hate feeling the pressure of having to act a certain way when I see what the present is. I hate knowing that if I don't make the right faces and noises, I could potentially hurt someone's feelings. If you don't smile and act delighted, you appear ungrateful. Overdo it and people know you hate the gift. It's a thin line people, a thin line.
I reach my gift first : a pretty scarf made of the softest material. Not so shabby, I think to myself, relieved. And then my fingers brush against something else hidden in the folds of the scarf. A gift card for a certain high street clothes shop - 40 €. Result! My day just got a little brighter with the prospect of being able to choose my own gift.
But once I've thanked my in-laws profusely and told them (the obligatory British politeness statement) that they really shouldn't have, something about the gift voucher catches my eye.
It can't be -
But it is! Oh the shame!
I knudge FP hard in the ribs and show him the gift voucher. Slowly, his eyes widen in horror.
You see, the gift card is not in my name. Well, the first name is mine - albeit spelt incorrectly but I'll let that one slip - but the family name...
Well, the family name belongs to FP's ex-girlfriend.
Mortified, readers. Absolutely bloody well morto.
Saturday, January 09, 2010