Without doubt, the very worst Christmas Present I ever had was the festive pullover from Aunt Jemima.
Before I go any further, let me make it clear that Aunt Jemima was, in many ways, a wonderful person. Kind, generous and caring, she was the sort of unsung hero who form the backbone of many small charities. But she did have one unfortunate fault. Arts and crafts.
She loved arts and crafts. It was her hobby, her passion, her calling. Anything that required a bit of glue or paint: anything that needed cutting or stitching or sewing or heating or moulding... And so on... These things filled her with boundless enthusiasm. All things craft-like or arty were her delight.
And there lay the problem. It really was all things.
She could never stick to one particular arty crafty thing long enough to actually master it. Instead, she flitted. Painting, pottery, embroidery: glass-blowing, leather working, origami and macramé, bread-making, biscuit-baking and beer-brewing. That would be in a month.
And of course, at Christmas she delighted in sharing the results throughout the family.
“Why waste money on shop-brought tat?” she would ask, rhetorically. “So much nicer to give something hand-crafted, something made with care and love!” she would add, cheerfully.
Care and love certainly. Those in abundance. But skill, and the practice necessary to develop that skill – these were significantly lacking.
Which resulted in some memorable presents. Memorable, but not in a good way.
There was the especially hideous pottery vase, a twisted mass of pink and lime green that killed any flower placed in it.
There was the huge tin of home-made shortbread that could only be consumed by pounding it into gravel and soaking it for a week.
There was the wire bracelet that nearly slit my sister’s wrist.
And there was the festive pullover that she presented me with.
The predominant theme was supposed to be Christmas Trees - or so I presumed: it more nearly resembled Christmas Mutant Mushrooms. Red, green and white wool had been tortured into something vaguely shaped like a garment - at least, it had a hole for the neck and two sleeve-like appendages, set not quite opposite each other, so that in order to wear it one arm had to be inclined forward and down, whilst the other stuck out at a slightly backward and upward angle.
And wear it I must. Aunt Jemima expected her presents to be used. “They aren’t meant to be stuck in a cupboard!” she said pointedly, when she visited on one occasion and her vase was not visible.
“Sadly, the cat knocked it off the mantelpiece,” we explained.
“You don’t have a cat!” she pointed out, suspiciously.
“It was the neighbour’s cat. No idea how it got in!”
(The neighbours didn’t have a cat either. Fortunately, Aunt Jemima didn’t know that).
Getting rid of the shortbread was easier, as concrete was being poured for foundations at a nearby building site. Strongest foundations ever laid, we agreed. My sisters bracelet was more of a challenge: she eventually concocted a story involving being mugged by a jewel thief with a discerning eye for metal bracelets, which flattered Aunt Jemima so much that she made no further investigation.
But to return to the pullover. After making appropriate noises of wonder and delight, I attempted to slip it to one side whilst I opened other presents. But Aunt Jemima was watching.
“Oh, do put it on!” she encouraged. “I want to see how it looks on you!”
The rest of the family urged me to do it - a cruel betrayal, but I understood their reasoning. It gave them opportunity to hide the various knitted scarves, gloves, socks and woolly hats that had been their gifts from Aunt Jemima.
So I had no choice. I wriggled, contorted and finally managed to insert myself into the festive abomination, whereupon I discovered the true horror of the thing.
It itched like crazy.
At every point where it came into contact with bare skin, it felt like I had been attacked with a virulent form of crowd-control chemical. Something banned in most countries, but used extensively in dictatorships and other repressive regimes. I could feel my skin turning red and blistered: from the alarm on my families faces, they could see it happening.
“Stand up straight!” commanded Aunt Jemima. “You’re slouching!”
It was hard not to slouch, as I was trying desperately to minimize skin contact. To no avail. My epidermis felt like it had started to crawl away from my bare flesh in its desire to escape. But with an effort I forced myself upright and even managed a grin, or at least a grimace.
“That’s better,” Aunt Jemima said. “Yes, that looks very good on you.”
“What a pity I can only wear it at Christmas,” I forced out through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I thought of that!” she replied. “It’s reversible. You can wear it all winter long. And I made the sleeves detachable, so you can use it in the summer as well!”
“How... thoughtful!” I gasped. “And so warm! Bit too warm for indoors, perhaps.” With frantic effort I tore the thing off, and rushed upstairs for a shower and copious applications of dermatological cream.
I didn’t come down again until Aunt Jemima had departed. From that day on I avoided meeting her at all, except in very hot weather.
Sadly, she is no longer with us. A tragic accident involving an oxyacetylene explosion which occurred whilst she was creating a steel sculpture in her kitchen.
The pullover has gone as well. At my request, she was buried in it. She also wore a woolen hat, a pair of gloves, two pairs of socks and three scarves. She was accompanied on her final journey by a eclectic assortment of home made pottery, jewellery, haberdashery, nick-nacks, tin tacks and various kinds of biscuit. Like an ancient Pharoah of Egypt, she was surrounded by all she might need in the after life.
It was perhaps a little harsh to reward her generosity in this fashion, but I comforted myself with the thought that in heaven, all these things would at last be made perfect.
Before I go any further, let me make it clear that Aunt Jemima was, in many ways, a wonderful person. Kind, generous and caring, she was the sort of unsung hero who form the backbone of many small charities. But she did have one unfortunate fault. Arts and crafts.
She loved arts and crafts. It was her hobby, her passion, her calling. Anything that required a bit of glue or paint: anything that needed cutting or stitching or sewing or heating or moulding... And so on... These things filled her with boundless enthusiasm. All things craft-like or arty were her delight.
And there lay the problem. It really was all things.
She could never stick to one particular arty crafty thing long enough to actually master it. Instead, she flitted. Painting, pottery, embroidery: glass-blowing, leather working, origami and macramé, bread-making, biscuit-baking and beer-brewing. That would be in a month.
And of course, at Christmas she delighted in sharing the results throughout the family.
“Why waste money on shop-brought tat?” she would ask, rhetorically. “So much nicer to give something hand-crafted, something made with care and love!” she would add, cheerfully.
Care and love certainly. Those in abundance. But skill, and the practice necessary to develop that skill – these were significantly lacking.
Which resulted in some memorable presents. Memorable, but not in a good way.
There was the especially hideous pottery vase, a twisted mass of pink and lime green that killed any flower placed in it.
There was the huge tin of home-made shortbread that could only be consumed by pounding it into gravel and soaking it for a week.
There was the wire bracelet that nearly slit my sister’s wrist.
And there was the festive pullover that she presented me with.
The predominant theme was supposed to be Christmas Trees - or so I presumed: it more nearly resembled Christmas Mutant Mushrooms. Red, green and white wool had been tortured into something vaguely shaped like a garment - at least, it had a hole for the neck and two sleeve-like appendages, set not quite opposite each other, so that in order to wear it one arm had to be inclined forward and down, whilst the other stuck out at a slightly backward and upward angle.
And wear it I must. Aunt Jemima expected her presents to be used. “They aren’t meant to be stuck in a cupboard!” she said pointedly, when she visited on one occasion and her vase was not visible.
“Sadly, the cat knocked it off the mantelpiece,” we explained.
“You don’t have a cat!” she pointed out, suspiciously.
“It was the neighbour’s cat. No idea how it got in!”
(The neighbours didn’t have a cat either. Fortunately, Aunt Jemima didn’t know that).
Getting rid of the shortbread was easier, as concrete was being poured for foundations at a nearby building site. Strongest foundations ever laid, we agreed. My sisters bracelet was more of a challenge: she eventually concocted a story involving being mugged by a jewel thief with a discerning eye for metal bracelets, which flattered Aunt Jemima so much that she made no further investigation.
But to return to the pullover. After making appropriate noises of wonder and delight, I attempted to slip it to one side whilst I opened other presents. But Aunt Jemima was watching.
“Oh, do put it on!” she encouraged. “I want to see how it looks on you!”
The rest of the family urged me to do it - a cruel betrayal, but I understood their reasoning. It gave them opportunity to hide the various knitted scarves, gloves, socks and woolly hats that had been their gifts from Aunt Jemima.
So I had no choice. I wriggled, contorted and finally managed to insert myself into the festive abomination, whereupon I discovered the true horror of the thing.
It itched like crazy.
At every point where it came into contact with bare skin, it felt like I had been attacked with a virulent form of crowd-control chemical. Something banned in most countries, but used extensively in dictatorships and other repressive regimes. I could feel my skin turning red and blistered: from the alarm on my families faces, they could see it happening.
“Stand up straight!” commanded Aunt Jemima. “You’re slouching!”
It was hard not to slouch, as I was trying desperately to minimize skin contact. To no avail. My epidermis felt like it had started to crawl away from my bare flesh in its desire to escape. But with an effort I forced myself upright and even managed a grin, or at least a grimace.
“That’s better,” Aunt Jemima said. “Yes, that looks very good on you.”
“What a pity I can only wear it at Christmas,” I forced out through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I thought of that!” she replied. “It’s reversible. You can wear it all winter long. And I made the sleeves detachable, so you can use it in the summer as well!”
“How... thoughtful!” I gasped. “And so warm! Bit too warm for indoors, perhaps.” With frantic effort I tore the thing off, and rushed upstairs for a shower and copious applications of dermatological cream.
I didn’t come down again until Aunt Jemima had departed. From that day on I avoided meeting her at all, except in very hot weather.
Sadly, she is no longer with us. A tragic accident involving an oxyacetylene explosion which occurred whilst she was creating a steel sculpture in her kitchen.
The pullover has gone as well. At my request, she was buried in it. She also wore a woolen hat, a pair of gloves, two pairs of socks and three scarves. She was accompanied on her final journey by a eclectic assortment of home made pottery, jewellery, haberdashery, nick-nacks, tin tacks and various kinds of biscuit. Like an ancient Pharoah of Egypt, she was surrounded by all she might need in the after life.
It was perhaps a little harsh to reward her generosity in this fashion, but I comforted myself with the thought that in heaven, all these things would at last be made perfect.