It’s Lizzie’s birthday.
Lizzie’s birthdays are always high-pressure events. As are Mother’s Days and Valentine’s Days, when it comes to Lizzie.
She expects good presents. Very good presents.
The problem is… she never likes the presents I buy for her. They’re always unmitigated disasters. Usually hardback books she’ll never, ever read… and if she was interested in them, she’d just listen to the audio book (Lizzie doesn’t really do ‘reading’).
In the last few years, Lizzie has wised up to the fact that she never likes my presents… and has given me firm instructions not to buy anything, unless she’s chosen it beforehand.
The problem is, she very rarely actually does choose anything beforehand. So I’m caught in a terrible Catch-22 situation. She wants a good present. She wants to choose it herself. She doesn’t choose anything. I have to get her a present anyway. But she won’t want it.
Actually, she did manage to choose a present for herself last year. A birdbath. Which I actually managed to buy and get delivered on time. But that was an anomaly.
Anyway, Lizzie’s birthday has come around again. And I’m feeling anxious about it like I always do. Except this birthday is a hundred times more high-pressure. This is Lizzie’s first post cancer birthday. My present had better be especially good. Of course, I haven’t managed to find anything suitable. And, as usual, Lizzie’s told me not to get her anything she hasn’t chosen, but she hasn’t chosen anything.
The birthday morning begins. First comes the preliminary ritual of the kids giving Lizzie their presents to her. The kids aren’t under the same kind of pressure to come up with the goods. They just have to come up with something. I’ve bought some small items beforehand for them to pass on. And Annie has bought some small, thoughtful gifts for her mother herself, mostly from TK Maxx.
Now it’s my turn. My heart is racing. In fact, Lizzie did tell me what she wanted beforehand, at the last minute. Some new running trainers. But she said she wanted to choose them herself and order them on our joint bank account. Except she hasn’t.
So, instead, all I have to give Lizzie is some completely random stuff I’ve picked up. Things like the hardback autobiography of Debbie Harry. Lizzie will never read this and if she is remotely interested, she’ll probably listen to the audiobook. Why oh why have I chosen this present for her? It was a panic-buy in the very purest sense. Lizzie thanks me half-heartedly for it and the other unwanted items I give her.
I feel like I’ve failed, again.
Of course, I should probably have gone for some grand gesture. Some jewellery or a weekend away together. Or a new car (OK, I can’t afford a new car). In fact, those were the exact things I gave Lizzie for her last ‘significant’ birthday (the jewellery and the weekend away. Not the car). But, since then, I’ve been under strict instructions never to do anything like that again (unless Lizzie chooses the items herself). I probably shouldn’t have listened, this time around.
In the afternoon, my mother pops over to give Lizzie a present.
My Mum was a needlework teacher at a school in Surrey and before that, in her younger life, she designed and made clothes in Manchester and London (on a modest scale – not a Jean Paul Gaultier-scale).
Mum always manages to look very stylish. She’s passed her love of clothes onto her two daughters (my half-sisters). I used to try and buy nice clothes too, before we had kids and I gave up.
Anyway, Mum appears in the kitchen and gives Lizzie a large, wrapped parcel. Lizzie opens it… and, to her delight, it’s a brand new ‘Coach’ handbag. Lizzie loves ‘Coach’ – and if our disposable income wasn’t always non-existent, she might have bought such a bag herself.
The present is a triumph. My clever Mum has saved the day with her tasteful, thoughtful gift. Mum’s presents for Lizzie are always impressive. But this time she’s surpassed herself. No doubt she got it at a bargain-price somewhere (somehow my Mum always manages to do that). But that simply makes her achievement all the more impressive.
The ‘presents’ situation is saved – but not by me.
‘Because my Mum gave you that marvellous bag,’ I say to Lizzie, later that day, ‘does it kind of count as a present from me?’
‘No,’ replies Lizzie, firmly.
P. D. Clifton 
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