I’m talking about presents.
As much as I love a little box full of sparkly things, they are the very rare sort of present that really doesn’t come along very often so we won’t talk about those, (although I am about to push a watermelon out of my nethers and that could certainly deserve a little sparkly something – I will not be holding my breath) but I’m talking about every day, not your birthday, kind of presents. There’s something to be said for a big box arriving at the door with your name on it.
I’ve had a MacBook, the same MacBook now, for 5 or 6 years. As we all know, technology moves so fast that the second you pull your computer out of the box half the crap on it is obsolete and you’re already behind the eight ball and you need to update, so my trusty ol’ steed was really archaic. When I got my new iPhone, Mister H was going through the motions of setting me up. He hooked my glorious new piece of machinery into my dinosaur to load my tunes, and the poor old dear coughed a few times, poo’d on the table, glazed over and began to dribble out the side of it’s disc player. As with an old member of the family I was very sad to see this decline and I was well aware of how much of my history was in the old girl’s head. We decided to upgrade her. We’d clean her up, and run some upgrades and try and turn her into a Sports 2000. My tech support warned me that the shock may well kill her, taking all of my precious info with her. Rock/hard place.
So I decided I’d ignore it. Perhaps a miracle would occur and she would last forever as she was. Who needs tunes on their phone anyway? It’s a silly luxury. I like CDs anyhoo.
About two weeks later there was a knock at the door and ANOTHER eParcel arrived for Mister H – fond of an internet shop is my man – and about 15 minutes later he called asking if anything had arrived for him today. I answered in the affirmative and he asked if I could please check the contents as this one was an important one for him. Still not twigging, I cracked into the multiple layers of sticky, packing tape to discover (CUE : DANCING BEARS) – Holy crap!, He’s bought me a MacBook Pro. A big one. Not a piddly, squint my eyes to see the screen MacBook, but a sexy big one. Oh, yes, size does matter. I love it. A lot.
Conversely, another place I find size really matters is when I’m out shopping for underwear. Particularly whilst I’m boasting mams of such epic proportions. You see, I spy upon the racks (pardon the pun) a sweet little lacy piece of balconette fluff and I ask to see it in my size….and out they haul a piece of mighty scaffolding that could easily double as my lawn bowls bag (although it’s decidedly prettier than Grandpa’s). My heart sinks as my bosom lifts, it’s just not pretty in this size. Bah humbug. So I slide back into my old faithful, over washed, slightly faded brassiere and leave the shop promising myself I’ll return in 12 months when everything is normal again….if a tad closer to the South Pole.
My neighbour apparently wears a rather hefty control brief (I’m not an undie spotter, her Hills Hoist is right under my kitchen window. She appears to have a designated underwear day these things are so impressive – god bless Suburbia). For the uninitiated that’s a pair of knicks that starts like normal pants and then just doesn’t quit. Team those baby’s with a practical bra and there ain’t a lot of sex appeal going on under your kit. Perhaps some lumps are smoothed from the outside, but we all remember that fateful scene from Bridgette Jone’s Diary where her paramour discovered a whacking great pair of pants under her skirt. Awkward. But aside from appeal, I kind think if whilst on the line your undies can harness enough wind energy to power your home, you’ve let it go a touch. But if it’s saving money on your power bill, power to you. Here’s hoping for little, cute underwear soon as this practical stuff is killing me……..although I do have a cracking computer to browse Victoria’s Secret on.