CHRISTMAS BUDGET
They’ve compiled their Christmas present lists and as far as they are concerned the die has been cast. From even the most reluctant speller amongst them the lists are clear, emphatic and in wished-for-most order. Very kindly, they have put the cost or an estimated price by each of the objects. Hamleys mail order catalogue, which plopped through the letterbox a few weeks ago, has been thumbed, checked and re-checked and the majority of wished-for items can be found inside. I glance, quite calmly, at the lists. As I scan the items I add up the estimated total in my head. Two thousand, three hundred and forty eight pounds would just about do it, I reckon.
How do I explain that just because there is a fully radio-controlled hovercraft available through Hamleys that doesn’t mean to say we can get one? You have to hand it to Hamleys, it really must be the best toyshop in the world, the gear you can get through them is staggering. Bobby has also underlined the price tag of £529.99 for the sit in, 8km per hour road-going Ferrari. Next to his frantic, over-zealous stars and exclamation marks he has written - ‘I’ll never hit Flo again’. He didn’t even bother to add ‘if you buy me this’; he knows I know what he means.
I suppose one can but admire my children’s optimism, but today I find it grim beyond belief. I wish my children didn’t know that some child somewhere will be receiving the fantastic Ferrari or the odious Cinderella Rags to Riches doll which costs £425. I kind of feel certain that the child who receives these things may not be too clear on the concept of rags. Perhaps I’m wrong. Even though I know I can’t afford to buy them these toys, I hope that if I did have enough money I wouldn’t be tempted to do so. Naively I would prefer my children to be looking forward to the bubbles and super-bouncing ball that Father Christmas routinely puts in their stockings and be thankful.
Contemplating the meaning of Christmas, as we all know, is definitely not advisable without having first consumed seven mince pies sloshed down with half a bucket of mulled wine. But now, a few weeks before the event, I realise that unless I do something smartish, the season will bring nothing but massive expectation followed by spiralling disappointment.
I gather the three list bearers for a meeting. “Now the thing about Hamleys,” I say, “is that it is a shop in London, far too far away for me to be buying presents from it here in Wiltshire. So, just so that you know, I won’t be buying anything from it at all.”
They all look suitably glum. “Besides,” I add. “You have to be fabulously rich to shop there and we are just not, so we can’t. OK?”
Bobby says, “Could we go there one day?”
Oh no, I think, this is getting worse. My pep talk is not working.
“Yes,” says Flo. “I’d like to see the rich people too.”
The ghost of Charles Dickens past seems to have wafted into the living room and any minute now tears will begin to stream down my children’s soot-smeared cheeks.
“Listen,” I cry. “We’re not that poor and of course you’ll get presents. I’m just telling you that you won’t be getting the Juke Box or a toy Ferrari, that’s all.”
They all look at me.
“We know that Mum!” they chorus in reply. All of their eyes raised to heaven with incredulity at my stupidity.
“Good,” I say. “So long as that’s clear. Go and rewrite your lists.”
They disappear upstairs, leaving me wondering whether the impossible requests were for my benefit, for Father Christmas’s or more likely for their own enjoyment.
Max reappears downstairs and hands me his list.
“You know Mum, you don’t have to be so serious about everything,” he says.
I drink my tea in silence. There’s me thinking I was a fly-by-the-seat-of my pants-take-it-on-the-head-jolly-sort-of-mum. Ah well, it just goes to show how wrong you can be. Happy Christmas everyone.
Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.A href="cms.asp?id=1991">Read Clare's previous diary Read Clare's next diary
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