Happy…you know.

For anyone who’s been awaiting the thrilling conclusion to the saga of what Mother got me for Christmas, well…the wait isn’t over. Whatever it is, it’s still in the post. But Mother’s on holiday, so I can’t pester her any more. I do know it’s not soup spoons—

Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m wearing the dressing gown. (LIE!)

I ran it through the sanitary cycle, and it smells like marshmallows. (TRUE!)

Maybe the water was too hot.

Anyway, I do need a bottle opener. Mine got lost, remember? I keep meaning to get one, but I don’t need one that often. It only becomes a problem when I get a bottle with one of those caps, and I have to pry in like an otter.

Soup spoons?

—Me

(Now, this is where I’m a terrible person, because I’m totally lying, and here’s what she sends me—)

Wee one, I’m proud of you. Not so much because that was an expensive dressing gown and I don’t want to see it ditched, but because you screwed your courage to the sticking point and overcame your phobic thoughts. Good for you! This bodes well for the future because if you can do it once, you can do it again. You’ve made me very happy. 🙂

NOW! MAKE SURE YOU’VE TURNED THE DIAL ON YOUR WASHING MACHINE BACK TO THE REGULAR CYCLE, BECAUSE THE SANITARY CYCLE IS DEATH TO SOME FABRICS!

Soup spoons? Nope. But I’ll pick up a bottle opener for you.

Love,

—Mother

I’m such a wanker. I did put on the smelly dressing gown to cancel out my dishonesty, but it stunk to high heaven. I put it back in its isolation bag. Also, I know about the sanitary cycle. I’m not five years old. I read the manual.

This story doesn’t make me look good. I keep perfectly good dressing gowns in bags, and I don’t buy basic kitchenware. I bother my mother, and what did I get her? (I’m not saying, in case she reads this, but she can’t have it till she visits. It might get damaged in the post.)

I won’t know what she sent till next year, but till then, I’m guessing pants. When it’s not socks or kitchen stuff, it’s always pants—those great puffy cotton ones that cover your whole bum. Bets on pants? Pants, going once?

Anyway, happy Christmas from me…and from my imaginary friends. Jingle-jingle!