Pick of the Prezzies 22/12/05
“Argh! Not again!” Mrs W expostulated, though she was talking about much-anticipated feature of Christmas.
“Yes, I owe it to my public,” I replied, like an aging diva being roped into her stays. “They need, nay, demand my annual guide to the best gift ideas from the cream of British journals. The Weasel’s Pick of the Prezzies is with us again.”
“But aren’t you a bit late this year? Do you know what day it is?”
“Why, there’s still plenty of time. As a matter of fact, I still need to get…” Anticipating my admission, she huffed off, like Stevenson’s Rocket on a particularly steep gradient. But she’s right on one point. The clock on the wall is ticking. Let’s hit the shops.
The Sunday Times proposes a nostalgic item “for her” in the form of a vintage acrylic phone (it’s the GPO one you used to have in the hall) at £120 and a double bed with carved cherubs at £10,990. Stocking fillers “for him” (who sounds a bit of a lush) include a Krug drinks trunk at £29,000, a litre of Kauffman vodka at £599 (it’s got a gold top), a leather ice bucket at £145 and an embossed leather hip flask at £95. For the nippers, there’s a Noah’s Ark at £350 with gold plate or sterling silver animals from £50 per pair. The 12 pairs shown will set you back at least £600 (more in the case of the hippos). For yourself, pre-war aluminium binoculars are a snip at £4,500. As for your silver-haired old granny, what could be nicer than a vintage tea-cup (“50p from a junk shop without their saucers”)?
Those cool hipsters at Time Out suggest a nostril grooming kit at £125 and Diptyque Tuberose-scented room fragrance at £48.50, though the paper’s caption “Keep her smelling of roses” suggests that its urbanite staff don’t know that tuberoses are not roses. The mag also proposes a teenager’s bag in the shape of a cartoon owl (£158) and another hip-flask (£39). Turning to The Guardian, what could be more practical than a £60 box of soap (“not for using – they’re purely bathroom decorations”), more tasteful than Vivienne Westwood’s phallic cufflinks (£70), more generous than a £5 pair of earrings (“less than the cost of a couple of magazines”) or more original than Diptyque’s tuberose fragrance?
Combining thrift with practicality, the Evening Standard suggests a Connolly car tool kit for £1,600, a vintage Rolex for £18,000 and a silver yo-yo for £90. And, yes, there’s a Harrods’ hipflask (£155). You’d think the whole male population was constantly taking nips. Among the modest stocking-fillers proposed by the FT are a Dunhill pen at £50,000, a Lange & Sohne watch (white or pink for £19,100) and diamond cufflinks in the shape of revolvers (£4,470). How classy.
In time-honoured style, we’ll conclude with the nigh-on mandatory suggestions of The Independent Magazine. Who could resist the “Paddington” handbag that comes with a huge padlock (£759), a remote-control flying saucer (£119.95) or a personalised wooden seedbox (£49 for six)? It is in the Indy that I’ve finally found Mrs W’s Christmas present. I look forward to seeing her incandescent joy when she opens a parcel to find a doorknob (from £1.50). Or should I go for a loo roll (“quite cheap”)? Suggested as a gift for pet lovers, it promises “hours of fun for any dog or cat”. Decisions, decisions.
The mysterious case of the Weasel’s Christmas pudding made headlines in Press Gazette last week. The journalism weekly revealed that a “luxury Christmas pudding” intended for the Weasel had disappeared from the office of Denise Thompson, secretary to editor-in-chief Simon Kellner. Well, yes, I can confirm this indeed was the case. It is a Christmas mystery ranking alongside Sherlock Holmes’s Case of the Blue Carbuncle. First I got an e-mail from Denise asking when the pud could be delivered to me? As a result, joy was unconfined in Weasel Villas. Then a second e-mail arrived saying that our pud had been nicked. Vanished. Not a Christmas crumb remained. Gloom and misery descended.
But Denise took up her cudgels in the form of a round robin e-mail to all staff. Could whoever had accidentally borrowed it, kindly return the pudding pronto, no questions asked? And, mirabile dictu, the pud magically reappeared. Once again, the Weasel house was transformed into something like Mr Fezziwig’s ball. The Weasel table will be graced with the steaming presence of this curiously mobile dessert tomorrow. Though I doubt if it will contain “a scintillating blue jewel” like the recovered goose in The Case of the Blue Carbuncle, it does include 6 per cent brandy. It is indeed a luxury pudding from Harrods. Intended to support the homeless charity Crisis, it costs £30, which will be winging its way to this inestimable organisation (www.crisis.org.uk). You can get one yourself from Harrods, but you’ll have to get your skates on.
I look forward to seeing Mrs W’s incandescent joy when she opens a parcel to find a doorknob…or should I go for a loo roll?