No, not today, that little epicurean delight doesn't occur till next Tuesday, when our bearded protagonist will be (cough-cough) years old. I think I'll be 25 again. That was a pretty good age. I was certainly a lot less creaky back in those days.
Of course, the impending birthday brings with it the annual dilemma: when She Who Must Express Her Adoration Of Her Bearded Sex God (that would be me) By Buying Him Something Nice For His Day Of Days sneaks up behind me and pounces the question, "What do you want for your birthday?" Like some sort of cross between Santa Clause and a Ninja. Only without the white beard and funky smell of reindeer poop.
And I have no bloody idea. I never have any bloody idea. This is the problem with not being all that materialistic: I don't really need any more stuff than I already have. I don't even have room for half the stuff I've got -- most of my birthday presents from years past are still sitting in the attic, in the boxes the were packed in when we lived back in the flat. And that was one house and five or six years ago.
But the non-materialistic argument does not go down well with She Who Must. There has to be something I want! Damnit! How about a nice jacket? I could do with a nice jacket, couldn't I?
Well, yeah, I suppose so, but this highlights a fundamental difference between men and women. Most women seem to like getting clothes as presents. Most men don't. Socks for Christmas? No. Jumpers for birthdays? Nope. Leather jeans and a chest wig for Valentine 's Day? Well... maybe just this once.
No: what manly men want are remote-control helicopters, an afternoon driving a chieftain tank through other people's houses, or an open-topped sports car. I'd quite like a huge farm upon which to build my dream house. But unless She Who Must Stump Up For Said Gifts wins the lottery this weekend, the farm and sports car aren't going to happen. Especially as she never buys a ticket. And as for the helicopter and tank thingy... I don't really need either of them, do I? So why waste the money?
I'd ask for suggestions, but I know what a bunch of perverts you lot are.
Labels: ramble, stuff