Cape Town - A lot of people want a lot of things to fall. Personally, I prefer a good shove and then a long plummet, but that’s just me.
As Christmas Day pa-rum-pum-pum-pums ever closer, I fear my family will call for my impeachment soon after they’ve unwrapped the gifts I have bestowed upon them. Some might wail and shrink away as I reach towards them and try to explain.
It’s absurd to think I was richer in my 20s than I am now. I ate out at least three times a week, bought overseas clothes from Stuttafords and went to the most expensive hair salon in Durban. Come the festering season, I would blow my entire bonus on gifts, sweeping through the mall like a sheikh or Manhattan widow, snapping up perfume and books and silk blouses. It helped that the rand wasn’t the consistency of swan vomit.
For a variety of reasons, this Christmas finds me penniless and somewhat puffy; having subsisted for the last six weeks on Marmite toast and the few garden caterpillars I could summon the energy to catch. Even the dogs have suffered, forced to eat cheap supermarket cubes that are disturbingly weightless and make their poo yellow. For budget entertainment the other day, I walked to the Black River, counted the flamingos (24) and then treated myself to a stale scone from the local tearoom.
I have explained the situation to my family, exaggerating slightly about the caterpillars (I’ve actually eaten at least five dozen). I told them Christmas this year would be a frugal affair. They all felt sorry for me and some offered money, but being half Viking I’d rather savage my own face with a rabid hadeda before accepting help. So I have decided to make all my Christmas presents.
I’ve done it a few times before. When I was six, I fixed the nozzle of my nasal spray, put it in a box decorated with Tinkerbell stickers, and gave it to my dad. He said it was the best gift he’d ever received. A few years later, I wrapped up a dead snake I found on the road and bequeathed it to my brother. The rotting reptile smell that permeated the house meant we had to go out for lunch, which was a bonus. When I was a student, and had spent all my waitressing money on beer and Robert Browning books, I baked everyone almond biscotti. Once they’d returned from the dentist, they all said how much they had enjoyed the robust texture.
Due to these ongoing austerity measures, for the past few months I’ve been making my own face cream. I bought a bucket of cow milking salve from an agricultural co-op in Stanford, a small jar of coconut oil and three vials of essential oil. It took some experimentation to get it right: the first batch was so greasy it felt as though an entire flock of sheep had spent three days rubbing their lanolin butts across my face. The second batch – infused with too much patchouli oil – smelt like the tea hall of a canasta convention. Finally, I got it right – although I can’t help feeling my cheeks might start sprouting tiny udders while I sleep.
So that’s the lady gifts sorted. The others will comprise of sundry homemade offerings: a nicely sanded plank my father can use for absolutely anything; necklaces strung with beads in the shape of spacemen for my nieces; and a collection of roughly hewn butter biscuits for the in-laws, complete with rude icing patterns and accompanying dental glue.
It’s not ideal. However, after finding myself in Cavendish at the weekend (it’s a long story involving underpants), I can’t help thinking my homemade approach might have merit. I saw two-for-one boxes of chocolates, facecloth sets, laptop covers and cellophane-wrapped nuts. There were queues at the tills and shoppers lugging packets. There were vacuum-packed hams and shoes that smelt of China; shirts with bad seams and books about cooking. All of this mass-produced stuff elevated to special status because of one day among many days. And there was an air of resignation and despair among the shoppers; an oceanic sound of credit cards being sucked into an expanse of debt, the clanking of the rand dropping like a fairground game with each strike of the hammer.
I can’t guarantee my family will love my gifts, just as I can’t guarantee I will love theirs. My mother has already let slip that she has bought me a pack of knickers, and she didn’t know if they should be large or extra-large. I vow to hate them regardless. But what I do know is that just being with my family – through all the snake stench, nasal sprays and hard nuts to crack – is more important than any stuff, even if we end up toothless, greasy and smelling of nylon.
Cape Argus