So after a night in a ridiculously over-sized bed, in which it’s actually possible to lose TS if I’m lucky, we made our habitual trip to the Trafford Centre. For those unfamiliar with Manchester and it’s landmarks, Trafford Centre is a giant shopping mall (using American terminology for those who require it) to the west of the city. It combines well-lit glass domes, with some hints of classical Roman architecture. In other words, it’s brilliantly tacky. A recent extension near the food court has the ugliest attempt at marble imaginable! We love it.

The aesthetic oddities don’t end with the building though. While I believe that Manchester is the best city in this country, I have to accept that there are some unusual looking creatures residing in the region. Yesterday while steering TS away from shoe shops, and trying to find clothes that we can both agree would look ok on me, it was like window shopping in a circus. From the chronically optimistic women who don’t realise that their flab is oozing over the tops of their jeans (thus displaying “muffin-top” syndrome), to the local scallies with the most preposterous haircuts since Mr T. I hadn’t seen a genuine mohican for a while, but yesterday I didn’t hesitate to point and laugh at the finely sculpted afro.

This made me think though about the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Some people, ie TS, are under the delusion that I’m good looking. Without a hint of false modesty, I can’t see it myself… still, I’m not going to argue too much. Anyway, I have to confess to one of the least acceptable things in decent society: I think my nephew is bloody ugly.

Usually, my folks are quite honest about whether babies are cute or look like they were mauled by the stork before delivery. However, the birth of my brother’s kid (the first grandchild) seems to have created some kind of naive prejudice in favour of the little sprog. Somehow, they see this blob of blonde-haired gormlessness and think he’s gorgeous. It may of course be me (and TS) who think he looks like some kind of hellspawn.

There is one thing missing from the North’s ugly folk though, and that’s the variety of beards that are displayed down in the midlands. The other week, we were in the local doctor’s waiting room and I was surrounded by facial bush!  old boys were discussing the problems of modern society (which was a very balanced discussion as you can imagine… the cause of the problems with young people is that they are bored, but no-one was ever bored in their day). I didn’t listen for long, as one looked like someone had stuck his face in a candy-floss machine, while the other looked like he was in the process of morphing into a werewolf.

As someone who has had a goatee in the past, and is currently under a moral obligation (or emotional blackmail) to keep a little bit of chin-hair, I often wonder what level of dedication it takes to grow a proper beard. I think though, that it’s a pasttime best suited for the retired gentleman who can mentally devote himself to proper cultivation. Who knows, perhaps many years from now I’ll look like a castaway, and people will be writing a blog about seeing me in the street.

It seems only fair to say that I hope you all got what you wanted from Father Christmas (I refuse to call him Santa). I have had the usual disappointment that I think all people over the age of 22 must have when they spend Christmas with their parents. That’s right, a piss-poor selection of presents.

Why is it that just because you get a proper job, you suddenly become ineligible for imaginative or exciting presents? I mean last year the highlight was a bin for my car.

I will just re-iterate that. To celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, my parents bought me something to put McDonalds cups in when I’m driving. Oh sure it’s practical, and yes my car was verging on Biohazard status… but seriously!!!

So this year, they played it safe with a cheque to be shared between TS and me (and I have made good use of mine by finding something genuinely worth having in the post-Christmas Sales). But what did I have to open on Christmas morning? A selection of plain long-sleeved t-shirts (luckily I don’t have a weak heart), some fudge (quick, i feel faint with the thrill), and… erm… actually that’s pretty much it. Oh, sorry… I also got a bottle of whisky.

In virtually every other respect, a return trip home usually results in my parents ignoring the fact I’m 27, engaged, have a mortgage, and can represent car thieves in the Magistrates Court. No, instead they treat me like i’m 17 and shouldn’t be trusted with scissors! However, when it comes to this time of year (well, Christmas or my birthday, when present quality is inversely proportionate to my age), suddenly my maturity is at the forefront of my parents’ imagination and they think that I am able to get whatever I like on a daily basis.

I can’t complain too much though. Due to a combination of work, family issues, and my usual festive denial that I have any deadline at all for buying presents. I did actually venture into the biggest shopping centre in the North of England in an attempt to buy a PS2 game for my brother. I even went into the ridiculously overcrowded shops to try and buy the sodding thing, but was denied by the lack of interest in Ice Hockey simulations by the masses of Manchester.

As for the folks, well I have got a present idea but it’s an experience (of sorts), so I can’t buy it until I know precisely when they are going to be free to use it. Not really a bad excuse that one!

As for TS… well we’ve not actually got anything for each other yet. She has bought me a couple of books written by a guy called Charlie Brooker (more about him in future posts I think), but other than that we’ve agreed that we need to save as much cash as I can for the Masterplan (again, sorry to be making promises for the future of the blog, but you’ll have to wait for that).

So there you have it. Christmas ’07 has been and gone. And you know what made it even more drab? The fact that the only Bond films shown featured Roger Moore. Next year, I’m dreaming of a Connery Christmas!