Those halcyon days when it was normal to go to the pub for a pint, to pay a rates bill and still be able to afford groceries? How golden, how splendid they appear, in these thin-humoured days of want.
Back in the Depression era, an orange in your stocking was seen as an affordable luxury. Today, depression is the luxury we can all afford, thanks to the coalition’s policies of austerity. Belt tightening, deterioration by deliberate underfeeding, cuts and more cuts - it’s like being governed by an eating disorder with a side of self-harm.
With the government un-funding the only patches that make menopausal women less crazy and a pedicure or cut-and-colour completely out of the budget this year, I predict a nation terrorised by bands of 50-something women this summer. Wolfen of claw, frizzy silver roots sparkling in the streetlights, as the temperatures rise, I see them loping across the nighttime landscape - insane with sleeplessness, the blandness of life and a lack of hormone replacements. Bad tidings, I bring.
Grim, it is.
Money for presents there is not.
Ideas? I have a few. You could:
Join a religion that doesn’t do Christmas. Judaism and Jehovah’s Witnesses do not celebrate the full catastrophe of Santa Claus, elves, reindeer, carols, tinsel, fruit cake, and chimney climbing for the purposes of reverse burglary - although with Jehovah’s Witnesses I think there’s just as much door knocking as is involved in carol singing, and Judaism seems very hard to get into, so make good choices.
• Go tramping in the Wi-Fi-less wilderness of New Zealand and stay there until it’s over - Tom Phillips hasn’t bought Christmas presents for three years.
• Give everyone a compliment: "Moira, your hair parting is always brutally exact." "Gordon, your chemtrail conspiracy theories are impressively fixed. You are like a rock pool chiton in human form."
• Give the gift of narcissism: "I am the gift. My presence is the present" - simultaneously disappointing and face-punchingly annoying. Usually uttered by the kind of sons who turn up at mum’s and head straight for the fridge to check out the contents, even though they are now 52.
• Give the gift of hope. There’s an election coming up in 2026, just try to not get sick or lose your job, and things might get better in 645 days.
• Bake something. Given how stressful everything is at the moment, I think some "special" brownies would hit the spot with even the straightest of people. Granny would enjoy a nice sleep and a break from having to worry about when exactly the kids are going to chuck her in a home and sell the family manse.
• Regift something that you haven’t already hocked to pay a bill. Just be mindful of certain nuances, items can bear unintended meanings. A rocking chair is thought to be an open door to the spirit world, a place for spectral guests to rest their ethereal feet, and a stopped clock is more than a malfunctioning timepiece, it’s an invitation to stagnant life forces. You don’t need to add possession or bad feng shui to your problems.
• Make something yourself, a DIY gift to spread holiday cheer, or holiday fear. Crochet party crowns in a variety of colours, or craft a horror that will take their minds off the lack of an actual gift and raise concerns you might need psychiatric help. A portrait of Christopher Luxon made entirely out of empty Estradot boxes would certainly have eyebrows quirking.
Successfully ostracised by your family for the paucity of your presents, you’ll be unceremoniously ejected on to the streets. Wandering aimlessly to the fringes, where nature meets the concrete of suburbia, join the taloned-toed hordes galloping through the trees, howling through hot flashes, standing half-crouched in silhouette atop a hill, shaking their magnificent grey manes in the moonlight. While the rich eat ham glazed with the tears of the unemployed, we’ll romp and stomp and blow their house down.
Wild times, my sisters.
