It was my father’s birthday on Friday, and I bought him this book on the history of the twentieth century, but I haven’t had time to send it to him yet, which makes me feel completely appalling – and indeed is pretty unforgiveable. The thing is, I pretty much know that whatever I buy him will be pretty much wrong. If he wants something he buys it himself, and he doesn’t really seem to have any particular “general interests” that a present can easily cater for.
I asked him what he wanted for Christmas one year, and he said that he’d like fifty Bic biros. So I bought him fifty Bic biros. He seemed as happy with them as anything else I’d ever bought him…
I’ve only made him smile genuinely once with a birthday present, which was for his fiftieth and contained fifty presents – from a bean bag frog to a vibro-massage kit. But although he smiled at the time, I don’t think any of the gifts were ever used again. In the end, I think my brother stole the frog, which we decided to call Wilbur. He got a hole in him in the end. All the beans fell out.