Christmas presents

Peculiar presents have raised their weird and wonderful heads several times over the nigh-on forty years I’ve been writing a column for the Derby Telegraph.
Who can ever forget being on the receiving end of a chip pan, on Valentine’s Day, no less? No, neither can I, and his head came close to bearing a lifetime’s scars. Then there was the elegantly wrapped and massive parcel which housed a washing up bowl, dust-pan and hand-brush, but of course, it was all in jest, the thought that counts, because the brand name was Lucy. It’s times like that when you wish your mother had named you Ruby - a thought which will no doubt fall on stony ground.
And I won’t go into detail about the state-of-the-art steam floor mop. Suffice to say my hiss was louder than anything that wretched thing emitted in its short, damp, leaking life.
It goes without saying that when he comes bearing gifts, I approach the unwrapping with unease and trepidation. But it has to be said he come good this Christmas, even though the prezzie was encased in birthday paper. I’d suggested an handbag. And that’s what I got – a stylish and snazzy bit of kit, and just the right size, shape, with plenty of internal pockets, adjustable shoulder-strap, and not a nasty, cardi-catching, garish brass buckle in sight. It was, more or less, exactly the detail I’d written on the note as he headed to town, targeting Brindley’s, in Babington Lane – just the one-stop shop - for his annual, oh-so-exhausting, seasonal sortie. But not quite.
It’s a brown bag. I’d asked for black. But heck, with all those 50-per-cent-off sales, it’s been quite a doddle changing the wardrobe to match the bag.
It was, after all, probably the best Christmas we’ve had, spent in a luxury cottage in the Lake District with our little family, a few flocks of sheep, four horses, cattle lowing in a lowly cattle shed, and a farm cat called Pebbles which adopted us for the week, and had to be turfed off the four-poster several times a day.
The place, all log fires and oak beams, had been festively festooned by the owners, complete with twinkling Christmas tree. Son and daughter-in-law Simon and Claire took over the kitchen, the cleaning, the cooking, and the driving, so all we had to do was wander the lanes in the cold and frosty air, indulge Jacob and Grace with grand-parental fun and games, and languish, under a big, star-filled sky, in an enormous outdoor hot-tub. Indeed, the most strenuous contribution I made was mashing the left-over veg for Boxing Day’s bubble-and-squeak. (Memo: omit the runner beans in future – they’re more fork-bending than mash-able).
Back at Orgill Towers, to a pile of presents too big to cart with us, he came into his own. Niece and nephew-in-law Cindy and Steve Alcock’s parcel contained a mushroom growing kit. It kept himself quiet until well into the New Year as he fiddled with spawned mushroom compost, casing peat, growing tray, and misting spray – not included, but hey, let’s jettison this EeZee-Orange Degreaser container with the squirty top, wash it out, fill it with water, and hey presto……stick the soggy mass down the cellar.
The step-by-step instructions, which he is following diligently, promise three mushroom "harvests" within two to three weeks of each other. Well-meaning friends who’ve been there, done that, devoured the mushroom soup, reckon they all come at once, and since, as they say, life is too short to stuff a mushroom, I’m at a loss to know what to do with the glut come reaping time.
Cindy and Steve claim they chose the gift because we’re the only people they know with a cellar. That, coupled with an uncle with a penchant for peculiar presents…..