Whores Will Have Their Trinkets

I have returned from my midweek shopping extravaganza in my old stomping ground of Brighton just in time to celebrate the last birthday of the year, save for Mr. Christ's.

Christmas shopping must be the most fiendish form of torture yet invented by the Archbishop of Canterbury & his minions, it would give the Spanish Inquisition a run for its money. First of all, this holy activity includes shopping. A major pain in the arse at the best of times, unless, of course, you are browsing the polished racks of gleaming records and CDs, tempting you with their come-to-bed sleeves. Number two, you are shopping for other people. Oh, the misery. You are handing over your own cash in exchange for things that you will not get to play with, except for the couple of weeks you have left before they must be given away. They must be tested to see if they are worthy of bearing your name on the tag. Most CDs don't come with the special British kite mark, a child may choke if you don't iTunes them quickly.

Saturday was Mr. Hockbo's official birthday, ahead of his actual birthday later in the week. We got to learn about Jupiter, ferret's bedtime habits, allergies, ghostly photos from the past and how to combine beer & chocolate cake in new & interesting ways. Worst of all, things that I'd lovingly bought had to leave my possession into the waiting arms of the birthday boy. A small foreboding shadow of the multiple horrors to come.


Currently Listening: Real Life by Joan As Police Woman