I had a bit of a traumatic experience yesterday. More of that later but, as will be made clear, this moment of trauma started me thinking about presents.
My Mother was a bit frustrating at birthday and Christmas time as, whatever I asked for, she almost got! For example, I would ask for a plain white shirt and she'd get me one with a thin stripe. I'd ask for a new football and she'd get me a rugby ball. I'd ask for a certain type of toy and she'd get me something that was almost right. It was always justified in some way but the truth of the matter was that the present she purchased was a "bargain" and she, bless her, just loved those. This was exemplified on my 21st birthday when I specifically asked for a certain type of record player (showing my age again!). Of course I didn't get it - I got another brand which was defended by her comment that the one she had bought was a lot more expensive but, because it was reduced in a sale (and thus cheaper than the one I wanted), it represented far more value for money as well as being a much better piece of kit. I did, at one point, just think of asking for money but no doubt Mum would have given me francs as the exchange rate was better!
Because of this, I have always appreciated the care and thought that has been put into subsequent presents from loved ones and the kids. Of course, when the kids were younger, "thank you" had sometimes to be said through gritted teeth. For example, when I started playing golf, I was inundated by golf-orientated presents. Everything from toothbrush holders in the shape of a golfer to strange Inquisition-type implements allowing one to monogram one's balls!
As they got older, their taste improved. That is, until my son became old enough to go on holidays on his own.
It all started when he went to Egypt a couple of years ago when, accompanied by many sniggers, he presented me with the following. Lovely!
His next trip out resulted in this little offering. Are you beginning to see a theme here?
By this time, war had been declared and I looked forward to finding the most appalling presents for him when I went away. Due to circumstances, I've had few opportunities thus far but this is one battle I am determined to win.
Anyway, when he came back from Spain earlier this year, one of the things he got me was a boob stress ball, similar to these.
It lived on my desk and I used to sit here and have a jolly good squeeze every so often. Being only the owner of only the oneone, I was still able to use the computer with the other hand!Anyway, we finally reach the nub of this whole blog. Yesterday, I was absent-mindedly having a good squidge when it exploded! One moment I was relieving my stress and the next, I was covered in this gooey clearish-white liquid. It looked as if I had been relieving my stress in a totally different way as I gazed in horror at this vast amount of gunge which had predominantly shot into my lap. My boob looked very sad as it sat there, shrivelled and empty but my first thought was relief that the weak point had been pointed at me rather than my computer set up.
I got up and waddled awkwardly into the bathroom where I gazed at myself and this nasty, sticky mess all over me. I dabbed ineffectually at the huge globs all over my black jeans and thought of how some guys would be proud to see such a sight. In the end, I just took everything off as, by that time, there was a spreading feeling of cold wetness which was decidedly uncomfortable.
I would therefore offer a word of caution to any of my male readers who make the acquaintance of a lady who has had implants - be gentle. The consequences of an over-exuberant caress can be catastrophic! I am now stressed, boobless and no longer comfortable in the bosom of my family, so to speak. How can I tell Master Bassett that I have utilised his boob so much I broke it? It's just like my youth all over again - I'm bought a present and it all goes tits up!
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