I am constantly in search of presents for Mr. Waffle because he is difficult to buy for and Christmas and birthdays come round every year with monotonous regularity.
A couple of months ago, I saw that he had cut out from the paper a book review so, stealthily, I went to the bookshop and ordered the book. I paid for it, I had it gift wrapped and I stashed it in the bottom of the wardrobe.
A short time ago, we were going through our piles of stuff on the desk and I innocently picked up the review and said: “ooh what’s this?”
“It’s a review of a book set in Brussels and I thought it looked interesting” he said. Cue much inner glee and outward indifference on my part. “But you can throw it out, I looked at some sample pages of the book on the internet and it’s really dull”.
He got it today anyway and expressed suitable (but, presumably, utterly feigned) enthusiasm.
It probably wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t keep buying me perfect presents.
I bet he felt really guilty when he opened it. Oh dear. Men are such a pain to buy for aren’t they? I mean, I don’t own a whole one, but I have friendship shares in several …