God, I hate this time of year. Getting up in the dark in the morning, setting off to work in the dark in the late afternoon, then spending the evening sitting in the dark in the theatre are bad enough. But then there’s the cold, angular rain, stinging my face as I sit cowering in the porch nursing a roll-up, the office on the phone wanting yet another piece to fill the vast open spaces they so much dread between Christmas and the new year, and even dear Liz, this magazine’s saintly arts editor, wanting early copy because she’s already up to her ears with the yuletide bumper issue. It’s enough to make a cat spit and a theatre critic snarl.
But my role in this column is not to moan. It is to cheer you up, bring happiness into your lives by solving your Christmas present nightmares, as well as suggesting a few treats that you might like yourself. So I will relax my clenched teeth, risk another quick fag on the porch and return as a helpful little ray of sunshine.
That’s better. So on to the first problem. Teenagers — what the hell do you give them? The short answer is that it isn’t worth selecting something yourself. Whatever you choose won’t be cool enough. Indeed, it will by definition be uncool, even if it is something they really wanted, because you gave it to them.
Mercifully, HMV has come to the rescue here with a smart alternative to the old-fashioned record token. It’s a plastic card, which you load up with however much cash you think the recipient is worth. I get one from the Evening Standard for being a judge on its theatre awards and it’s a gift that makes me glow with pleasure.
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