December 1st
Dear Santa,
Here we are again. December. The season to be jolly. The season to eat mince pies and wear reindeer jumpers. The season to give your credit card a good workout. The season of materialistic desires. Every year, come December, I find myself suddenly wanting things. Loads of things. Just yesterday, I realised that life wasn’t really worth living without a pair of earmuffs that are also headphones. Especially the ones with the cute owls. Hint, hint.
And I know that it’s going to be a slippery slope from now on. Three and a half weeks of window-shopping, catalogue-flipping and impulse-buying. I am looking forward to getting the Sunday paper as I know it’s going to come with glossy catalogues that will turn me on slightly – especially the pages with the gorgeous red lacquered kitchen wear. Oh yes, I want that beautiful blender. And am pretty sure I need it too. I remember that one time I made soup in the late nineties. It was pretty good. I would probably use it every day. It would definitely be worth it. Oh, and while you’re there, why not throw in the waffle/toastie/doughnut maker? I used to have one in my previous house. I really liked it. I would have used it more if it hadn’t fallen behind the fridge after months of gathering dust on top of it. And I bet the new versions won’t require attempting to scrape off burnt batter from the tiny grooves with a chopstick.
But maybe I should be sensible and think about what I really need? Set my priorities straight. Right now, I guess some industrial-strength carpet cleaner would be welcome as I just dropped my coffee on the floor. It was probably the excitement of getting the Sunday paper and all the above-mentioned catalogues. While I think about it, maybe a good odour-neutraliser as well. I dropped my beer last week and the lounge has been smelling like a brewery ever since. Oh, and I know you’re not God – merely a medium for all demands material – but I could really use better hand-to-eye coordination.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 2nd
Dear Santa,
Sadly this week’s catalogues turned out to be pretty disappointing. Last year, by this date, I had already fancied a £159 dog-shaped lamp from Liberty, a £49 scented candle from Diptyque, cashmere tops from various brands and all the Christmas hampers from Harrods. Yesterday, I was only momentarily drawn towards a set of Star Wars decorated Le Creuset casseroles.
With the catalogue flipping backfiring, I did some news reading instead and came across an article mentioning that children in the UK this year would ask on average for £800 worth of presents. In my pre-inflation time that would work out as £457. That’s a hell of a lot of toys. I remember the year I was eight getting a “deluxe” Monopoly set. The deluxe stood for gilded pawns and wooden houses instead of plastic ones. How many deluxe Monopoly sets can one get for £800?
I also remember getting – among other things, let’s not be ungrateful here – a dictionary. That was my first year of secondary school. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have told the whole class – that set me way down the cool-o-meter. Almost as low as that other girl, Nadine. She got a small koala bear cuddly toy that you could clip on your clothes. And she did – every single day. Until she lost it in the cafeteria one dramatic lunch time. Luckily it came as part of a set of two, and after an agonising koala-free afternoon the cuddly toy clipping resumed. I quite liked that girl. She was very fresh, unassuming, with a complete disregard for what people might think of her that was quite admirable. Also she made me and my dictionary feel rather hip.
I still have my dictionary. It’s a bit battered, though – the devices pre-date the euro and some Eastern European countries mentioned in there are no more. Maybe I should get a new updated one. Actually, what I’d really like is a full encyclopedia set. Those with the posh embroidery on the side. I saw some really nice ones in a mail-order-only catalogue a couple of weeks ago. They would look pretty nice on a shelf. And would be very handy for looking up facts those times when your phone, tablet and computer all happen to be flat at the same time. So I guess a set of encyclopedias it is then. The burgundy ones, not the blue ones.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 5th
Dear Santa,
After giving it a bit more thought, I don’t think a set of encyclopaedias is that good an idea. I just remembered that a few years back I inherited the encyclopaedia of Roman Catholic saints in 15 volumes from a beloved great-aunt. And they are burgundy, though not embroidered, but I guess they will still look nice on the shelves – all I have to do is get them down from the loft.
I like the idea of something work-related, so I thought why not something nice for the office? After all, this is where I spend most of the day. Maybe a nice mug for my coffee. I had a colleague who had a brilliant one. Not only was it a Thermos and kept your coffee warm for hours, it also had a little propeller at the bottom that would stir the sugar. The downside to it was that it was often borrowed by others less lucky in the mug department, which meant he had to write endless mass emails asking for it to be returned. He was definitely the person that wrote the most emails to the entire building, followed closely by a woman – who sadly I never had the chance to meet – who was very attached to her Lion King plate and felt rather frazzled when others used it. I might leave the mug idea. I’m not sure I want to write kitchenware-related emails to the office on a regular basis. It’s like asking people to move down the carriage. There’s no good way to do it.
I looked up a few items online and fancied several, especially the individual desk air purifier. Or was it an air humidifier? Anyway, apparently, it’s full of health benefits. I love the idea of getting healthier whilst sitting at my desk. It might also be a bit of a conversation starter, which might be nice. Although I wonder if it might generate some mockery. And I’m not sure I could take it. I’m not a free spirit like Nadine and her koala. Maybe a plant in a pretty pot would be less controversial, but if the air is too dry in the office it might not survive. Or I could get a big plant to hide the air humidifier. Win-win. I guess the air humidifier it is then.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 12th
Dear Santa,
Today I went to the annual Christmas lunch invited by my golfing mates and their families. I have been going for years. I like the golf club. Well, I like it now they removed the “male only” sign from the main entrance door. Not that I am feminist or anything, but there’s no need for such chivalry. I do like the main entrance door though. It’s flanked by a state-of-the-art shoe cleaner. You pop your shoe on it, and seconds later it’s good as new.
But going back to the lunch. It’s mainly the older generation, and the generation above that. Loads of grey heads, sensible shoes, petticoats for the ladies and dark suits for the men. It’s actually quite nice to catch up with the older generation. A good occasion to remember whether I still know my war facts well and brush up on US presidents since 1932, even learn new things. Did you know that J. E. Hoover ran the FBI for almost 50 years? I didn’t. Apparently he wasn’t keen on JFK’s brother, Robert. But that’s by the by.
Once lunch is over, it is traditional to launch into some Christmas tunes. The firm favourite is the 12 days of Christmas, with each table having to stand up once it’s their line to sing and sit back down and then stand up again, a whole 12 times. That’s like a proper work out. Especially after turkey. Not everybody is on board, but generally it’s a jolly moment.
This year it was decided to crank it up a notch with some extra fun, and the entire room launched into a rather creaky rendition of “Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. I didn’t really feel like joining. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t touch my toes. I was simply too busy stuffing myself with stilton. The room emptied pretty much after that. I am hoping the local A&E isn’t too full of people with sudden hernias.
I had a lovely afternoon catching up with family and friends and enjoying the sight of geriatric gymnastics. Sadly I forgot to use the great shoe-cleaning machine. Could I get one of those for Christmas please?
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 14th
Dear Santa,
There’s a great shop next to the office. It’s a kitchenware shop. It’s not particularly fancy but it offers loads of sensible items and loads of brands. You could get easily overwhelmed if all you’re after is a standard 3-cup Cafetiere. I know. It happened to me. I initially got very excited by all the choice but then that excitement turned into mild hysterics and I left emotional and empty-handed. But if you’re not in a rush and need a lot of kitchen stuff, this is the place to be.
What I like the most about it – aside from it providing kitchen supplies to a greater scale – is its window. There’s a massive fridge in there. Its door is open wide, I guess in order to show its vast refrigerating capacity. Next to it, there’s a beautifully arranged pyramid of kitchen rolls. Not the average-size ones. The really large blue ones that one might see in an office or hospital. The pyramid has a big, red, shiny bow wrapped around it. I never thought that kind of item could be a Christmas present but the red bow suggests otherwise.
There used to be a mannequin by the fridge, wearing a black and white checked cook’s apron resting its left arm on the fridge door as if it just opened it. Its body was slightly tilted as if it was leaning forward in order to see what was in it, and it all looked very realistic. I loved that mannequin, it was so life-like. The first time I saw it I actually thought it was a real person whose job was to model black and white checked aprons and lean inside fridges with happy eagerness.
Sadly, it was replaced by the kitchen roll pyramid. I guess that the need for kitchen rolls is greater than the one for mannequins. Even mannequins in aprons. This is sad in a way – that ephemeral disposable items supersede those that would last. What happens when all the rolls have been used? All you’re left with is a great big bow, like a shiny reminder of all the mopping fun that is no more.
Dear Santa. Could I please get a mannequin. Could I have the roll pyramid too. It might come handy in a household where beverages are dropped frequently. And when’s it’s all gone, the mannequin can wear the bow, on special occasions.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 16th
Dear Santa,
When I was in my teens, I received a questionable present. No – not the dictionary. I got a nose-shaped glasses holder. A small, blue plastic nose to perch your glasses on.
I don’t mean to be ungrateful but… a plastic nose? All it did was remind me that I wear glasses. And that there’s a person somewhere in the world – or possibly a team of brains – behind the nose-shaped glasses holder prototype. This is troubling. I wonder what those people are up to know. I wonder how many people can brag about owning a nose-shaped glasses holder. Maybe I’m the only one?
Maybe I’m the only one that still has it? In that case I should really investigate whether this could bring me a small fortune, maybe organise an appearance on Cash in the Attic. Or wrap it safely and keep it in my time capsule of late-20th century revolutionary items alongside phone loungers, shoulder pads, Tamagoshis and Thigh Masters.
Or I could request to be buried with it and give future archaeologists and grave robbers of the rich and famous – which I intend to be – something to get excited about. I can picture a team of experts bent over a small, faded-blue plastic nose in an evidence bag, throwing suggestions at each other: “The nose was by her left hand. This means she was a schizophrenic with a toe fetish and a penchant for rich foods, especially steak and kidney pie and fondue.” or: “The nose was pointing downwards. This means she was into the dark arts and liked fancy dress and disco, but could also mean she had a tendency to enjoy fungal smells.” They would actually be spot on in all their assumptions.
Could I please have a small box to keep my nose in. Ideally something padded that would stand the test of time. Something padlocked would be good too. This nose is precious after all. And I would quite like a plastic moustache to go with it.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 18th
Dear Santa,
When I was 16, I received the best Christmas present ever. A Walkman. No I wasn’t born in the 60s, I just happened to get one of the last Walkmans ever made. It was pretty neat, very small, bright red and had auto-reverse. This meant that I could listen to David Bowie’s Hunky Dory album 17 times in a row before the AA batteries would start dying and Bowie would sound like Nick Cave.
The good thing with Walkmans is that they force you to listen to entire albums in the order they were intended. No shuffle, no playlist. Unless you’re willing to rewind to listen to the same song again, but this can prove a very frustrating exercise. You rewind too far and then you have to fast-forward. You rewind too little and then you’re not sure how much of the song you actually did rewind, so rewind some more and go too far back once again, so you fast forward just a bit. Then you get very confused as you end up in the middle of another song and you can’t remember whether it was before or after the tune you wanted.
Anyway. This is how I got to know my favourites. By owning an auto-reverse Walkman and very few tapes. There are tunes I know inside out and guitar solos I know so well I think I would be a strong contender for any air guitar contest.
Sadly I can’t play a real guitar and am not very musical. I do have a harmonica and occasionally have a little play – but since the evening when I practiced the intro of the Pogues’ “Dirty Old Town” I’ve noticed the neighbours have become a bit frosty.
All that to say I wish I could be a musician, possibly a guitar player, maybe a nut job like Pete Townsend. Or a cool cat like Jimmy page. Yes, I would actually like very much to be a male guitar player in a rock band, preferably one from the 1970s which encourages outrageous behaviour, fancy dressing and guitar throwing. Why male? Well, I always wanted a penis so I guess this is a way to kill two birds with one stone.
So, to sum up, I would like: a beginners guide to guitar playing, a guitar (Fender, black), to travel back to the 1970s and a penis (large please). Oh, and Robert Plant’s hair. And a Walkman.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 23rd
Dear Santa,
Today, in an attempt to burn off a large amount of recently consumed mince pies, beers and cigarettes, I went for a run. It was very pleasant. Not so much the weather, or the actual act of running, but the scenery. I had the Thames on my right and Hampton Court Palace on my left. Hampton Court Palace is a brilliant, brilliant place. It is by far my favourite castle ever. It’s not as pompous as the Chateau de Versailles and not as cheesy as Disney World’s. Yes, those are the only two other castles I know.
I wish I could own Hampton Court Palace. The first thing I would do is to tell all the staff cooking food in the kitchens in an attempt to re-enact history and waste perfectly good vegetables – I believe the meat is fake but the leeks really do look real – to go home. I would also get the rest of the staff to bugger off. And I’d forbid entrance to all tourists.
I basically just want Hampton Court Palace to myself. Once this is done I am planning to walk up and down the darkened corridors, listening to my footsteps echoing, before stopping in every bedroom and trying all the beds. I am also really hoping to bump into Ann Boleyn’s ghost so I can ask her why she was such a bitch and lecture her on her questionable taste in men. Then I will go down to the gardens in the middle of the night and run like the wind (lung capacity permitting) whilst windmilling my arms and making blood-curdling screams. Just because I can.
In order to keep any possible loneliness at bay I may go to Bushy Park and find a pet deer. Might come in handy when I’m too tired to walk along all those corridors. I will share the leftover leeks with it and when those run out I can eat the deer. Maybe run it into the ground, Neanderthal style. Fitness permitting, obviously.
So there. Could I please have Hampton Court Palace for Christmas? Actually, I just want to borrow it for a bit. I’m not sure I want to own it. It’d probably take days to vacuum. If borrowing it isn’t an option, however, then I guess I’d like a Henry vacuum cleaner as well please. And a personal trainer.
Sincerely,
BFJ
December 26th
Dear Santa,
A hearty thank you for my wonderful presents, I feel very spoiled and very grateful. The wrapping of the mannequin in particular was exquisite. I knew the penis would be a tough one to sort but my new encyclopedia set more than makes up for it.
Love,
BFJ
B F Jones is French and lives in Surrey with her husband, 3 children and cat. She has had stories published in The Cabinet of Heed, Soft Cartel, Storgy, Bending Genres, The Fiction Pool, Spelk Fiction and Idle Ink. Twitter: @fijo_frenchie