My favourite old china from my favourite old china, Blondie
(this crockery is called Gaytime - makes for
interesting searches on Ebay)
A wonderful tome about disappearing shop frontages in NYC
from Mr Lane - typography heaven
The sweetest (they're very old, not vintage) Japanese salt
and pepper pots from dear Mr Rogers
Library Christmas loan from Les French - suggestion that
it might keep me warm on a cold night whilst they're away
(Taschen The Big Penis Book: trust me, Ladies - once you've seen one,
you really haven't seen them all)
Amidst the piles of chocolates/hankies/bottles of booze, there appeared an unfeasibly kind and daftly extravagant bit of technology kit from Blunt Santa (big gratitude for making my life better in more ways than one, Boss/Friend).
Despite all these treats, the very finest gift of all wasn't something from "fatty with his sack of shit" (best Christmas album ever, after Phil Spector obviously, has to be A John Waters Christmas - thanks to BBH Aine). It didn't come down a chimney either.
No, but it did turn up in a stocking. Two, in fact. Attractive surgical stockings, delivered via a Toyota Yaris sled, courtesy of the kindness of top surgeon-cum-Santa Mr Rhodes of Bradford Royal Infirmary (thank you, HDU and Ward 19). It was beautifully wrapped in M&S pyjamas, and arrived just in time for The Queen's Speech and a Christmas lunch to be cherished for years to come. The most unexpected and perfect present we could have wished for. (Sadly, I fucked it up on the sprouts front, but pulled it all back with my spectacular pickled onion gravy - don't ask.)
