It’s nearly Easter. The time of year when we celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ through the medium of chocolate eggs which have been left behind by a rabbit. I don’t even know where to start with how wrong that whole arrangement is. Not the Christ bit, I’m steering clear of that lest I be lynched for some blasphemous views on the subject, but a rabbit delivering eggs is just weird. And chocolate eggs at that. But anyway, it’s nearly Easter and I’ve learnt an important lesson.
Jimmy Carr has a little line in one of his live shows that basically says that buying a girl tampax isn’t considered getting her a present. While I have not tried to palm sanitary products off as a loving and thoughtful gift I have crossed a bit of a line this evening. Earlier, in between sponging plastering equipment (and a crowbar) from my girlfriend’s dad, it was mentioned that my petal, my lamb, the love of my life needed to go to Tescos to hunt out some liquorice alsorts for her friend. As she was going to a supermarket anyway I merely took the time to suggest that she picked up an Easter Egg for herself and tell me what I owed her. Apparently this is wrong. Very, very wrong. Apparently I’m supposed to pick an egg myself, hand over my own money to a shop person (or the automated tills if I’m feeling adventurous) and give this to her as a present. I just thought that my idea was better. I can explain.
1) She was going to the supermarket anyway. Any time-and-motion study will tell you that this is the most efficient means of acquiring the egg. As the supermarket was being visited it makes sense that – detour down an aisle stuffed full of eggs would be an appropriate thing to do. As she was going to Tescos for a mere one item I knew that she would have the capability to carry an egg home with her, as evidenced by the fact that as well as the alsorts we now appear to be the proud owners of some hot cross buns and a new top of some description. And (and!) it’s good for the environment. Lessens the carbon footprint and all that. As a household who, about 10 minutes from the end of Earth Hour on Saturday night realised we have EVERY light on in the house we clearly have some kind of environmental debt to make up. A debt which can’t be offset by my tireless quest to root around in the bathroom bit to make sure we’re recycling the middles of loo rolls.
2) She would get the egg she wanted. This, for me, is the clincher. There is a multitude of eggs available. Big eggs, small eggs, eggs in mugs, eggs in tins, eggs in bags, eggs in eggs, eggs with toys in, eggs with notebooks (I kid you not), dark chocolate eggs, milk chocolate eggs, white chocolate eggs, eggs in crispy shells, eggs with chocolate truffle inside. Then there’s the multitude of chocolate things that aren’t eggs. I say multitude. It’s basically rabbits. There’s even a kit-kat with picture of a rabbit stamped on it, for christ-sakes. What this means, dear reader, is that a fellow such as myself is left with a massive choice and a million ways to screw it up. When we were discussing the egg I was told that I couldn’t get it wrong as they all involve chocolate. I’m sorry? I couldn’t get it wrong. I think I’ll need that in writing please as I can almost guarantee that I could get it wrong. It’s like when you’re told that they don’t want a big gift. They want a big gift. It’s a world of opposites. That’s how girls work. Everything means the opposite.
e.g. “Does my bum look big in this?” = I know my bum looks big but if you so much as say anything you will die.
“She seems nice” = She is an absolute bitch. Seriously. If I catch you even mentioning her name you will die.
“I have a headache” = If you put that thing near me again tonight, I’ll tear it off and you will die.
As you can see, most of these elaborate opposites end with “you will die”. So, reading between the lines, if I get the egg choice wrong I will die. I don’t know if that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Through cunning questioning I have managed to rule out any egg with a mug as she’d “rather I spent money on an egg than a mug”. Reading between the lines here I deduce she’s expecting me to spend money on this egg. Not just money. But money all italicy and bold.
Last year I bought a Cadbury’s egg. It was in a tin and it had an egg in an egg in an egg. It cost my about half a month’s wages. It was absolutely shit. We had to look at it through a magnifying glass to make it look anything close to impressive. The tin was huge. The tin was impressive. We still have the tin to remind me, or taunt me, with the memories of this rubbish egg. An egg which came second to the time we bought two drinks and a muffin at a service station on the way to the Lake District and it cost us £9.60. Seriously. Everything we do is measured by that snack break. If that hadn’t happened, everything would be measured by last year’s shitty egg.
So, basically, it’s wrong to ask her to choose the egg she wants and it’s a minefield of bad decisions when it comes to me choosing the egg, at the last minute, in a supermarket. As I look from egg to egg and try and discern the difference between them, or how much of the massive box is air and how much is chocolatey goodness or whether she said she didn’t want a mug because she really wants a mug.
It would just have been easier for her to have picked the egg herself and told me how much I owe her. It really would.