Christmas, as people have often remarked, changes a lot as you get older. For one thing you get less presents (mainly because you're more fussy, I think). For another you feel less excited about the whole thing (maybe because of the lack of presents that you're getting). All of which could lead you to thinking that Christmas should be a miserable time of year for everyone over the age of, say, thirteen. The truth is, of course, that as you get older Christmas, in fact, gets better.
I can explain why with two phrases:
- Spoil yourself! It's Christmas!
- January sales
The first one is, of course, the most insidious. It makes you think that sixty quid on DVDs here, a hundred and fifty quid on overpriced clothes there is okay because "It's Christmas!" And number two backs it right up. Not only is it Christmas! it's also January Sales time, which means that you can say to yourself "Well, I'll never be able to get this overpriced tat for that price at any other time of the year and, hell, spoil yourself! It's Christmas!" and somehow convince yourself that this is logically sound.
And so your bank account empties slowly with a noise not unlike an expensive bottle of red glugging down the plughole. And late in January, as payday is just out of reach enough to make things a stretch (especially if your nice employer brought payday forward for you so that you could spend even more of your wage over the Christmas week) you find yourself thinking "well, maybe I shouldn't have bought all that stuff on Amazon on Boxing Day. But it was Christmas! And January Sales! So I suppose it's okay," whilst your children turn blue with hypothermia and the cat dies because you haven't been able to afford it for a week and a half. Actually, strike the bit about the cat. They can sort themselves out.
And of course, dear reader, your humble blogger hasn't been able to avoid temptation this year any more than any other member of homo sapiens would when faced with a massive amount of price reductions and a seemingly large amount of disposable income (or in my case money that is given to me in lieu of presents by people who feel guilty enough to still want to give me something every year).
Which is why I'm currently waiting on deliveries of not only a new bass (of which more in a moment and to which the title of this post largely pertains) but also the entire collection of Buffy DVDs, £65 delivered, courtesy of Amazon, seasons 1 and 2 of Life on Mars, also courtesy of Amazon and seasons 1-4 of teachers, yet again from Amazon (but through Sarah's account rather than mine because, you know, she's the teacher and I just get to laugh at the show).
All of which is all very nice and pleasant and, you would think, would give us plenty to be watching on the great glass teat as we try to shrug off our post-Christmas torpor in time for the New Year (when we will, of course, replace it with a post New Year torpor or, quite possibly, a hangover). Trouble is, of course, it doesn't quite work like that.
The DVDs, which were ordered at various stages over the last seven days, are due to arrive sometime between next Wednesday and two weeks hence. The Buffy DVDs were supposed to arrive yesterday but have yet to show, and my bass... well, let's just say that I should have known better than to place an order for a bass with a company who uses TNT Express to deliver their customers' goods.
TNT have, allegedly, tried to deliver my bass twice. Except that they haven't been trying very hard because not once have they actually knocked on my door. The first time I could have understood, since ours is not a house that's easy to find even with GPS (GPS, incidentally, will plonk you right on top of us but there's no indication of which house is which on our little site). But I would have thought that after I'd had the whole "here's my phone number, get the driver to call me" conversation with them I would have at least got a call to say "I can't find your house," or "Are you actually in." Better still, they could have done what DHL and UPS do, which is to call first and say "I'm on my way... can you give me directions please?"
I offered to go and pick the bass up from their depot (if the mountain won't come to Mohammed...), which all seemed fine and dandy until the depot, which I had been assured would stay open until three this afternoon, magically closed at twelve. Apparently I can go on Monday to pick the thing up - but only with the right ID and paperwork (funny, they seemed perfectly happy to deliver it to my house without any ID whatsoever). All of which leads me to wonder if some minor deity or other hasn't decided to toy with me for the sake of amusement over the period between Christmas and New Year, when too many people have become virtuous and not enough people are getting drunk enough to be interesting.
Next weekend, though. Next weekend, I think, might be a geeky DVD-fest of epic proportions.
