John Watson: The present wrapping struggle

John Watson

IT WAS Christ himself who said that it is more blessed to give than receive, so I think it must follow that membership of the Trinity is a help when wrapping presents.

For me, as for most men, wrapping is something of a trial, and the frustration of wrestling with paper, sellotape and scissors absorbs much of the goodwill that should accompany the gift.

Women can do it, of course. It is as natural to them as breathing, and in a few minutes they can produce a symphony of perfectly tied ribbon and neatly folded corners without so much as breaking into a sweat.

"There you are, you see - it's easy," they say, smiling sweetly and a little condescendingly, offering to take over the wrapping of the parcel with which you are struggling. It is tempting to give in to them - as one usually does - but, in these days when sexual stereotyping is frowned on, dignity has to be maintained.

"No, no," you say. "It is simple enough ... I'll have it done in a jiffy."

I'm not sure how long a jiffy is, but this boast is mere braggadocio, a demonstration of machismo designed to boost your own self-confidence, the drawing room equivalent of the bare-chested wrestling with wild animals which has become de rigueur for Russian leaders.

Then the unpalatable truth dawns: the box you are about to wrap is octagonal.

The difficulty with this lies in the number of fingers. Most of us have four fingers and one thumb on each hand - technically that is not the same as having five fingers on each, although the distinction has often been blurred in literary works, for example Tolkienian references to "Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom".

Anyway, a total of 10 fingers and thumbs is usual, meaning you have 10 basic mooring positions for pieces of sellotape - exactly the number of pieces which you need to wrap an octagonal box (one at each corner and two criss-crossing over in the middle).

Unfortunately, it leaves no fingers (or thumbs) free to manage the paper itself, and you end up trying to fold it with fingers and thumbs that already have sellotape stuck to them. Inevitably, the tape sticks to the paper in all the wrong places.

Now there is a difficult choice. Either you cut those bits out of the paper, relying on overlap to cover the gaps and pleading origami if that doesn't work, or you flatten the tape on to the paper in an "I just did this for a bit of extra ornamentation" sort of way. The trouble with both systems is that you will need more sellotape to straighten things up, so you cut a few more pieces from the roll and stick them on the empty fingers and, if there are not enough of those, on your nose and ears as well.

Then the phone rings. You forget about the sellotape and seize the receiver. It is the vicar asking you to read the lesson at carols. Yes, of course, it would be a pleasure. You go to put the receiver down but that is easier said than done because it is stuck to your ear. It hurts and you swear.

"What did you say?" asks the vicar, his tone one of surprise. Your repetition owes more to politeness than it does to veracity.

It's when the box is all wrapped up into something that resembles a large carbuncle that you begin to have doubts.

Is the present really suitable for its recipient?

You have no Christmas list for them and you cannot really tell whether they liked last year's present or not.

At this stage the lady of the household intervenes.

"Come on, that'll have to do or we shall be late to church," she says, and off you go to carols followed by mulled wine.

It is a truly festive gathering and only slightly spoiled when you hear the verger comment to the gravedigger that this is the first time he has heard St Matthew's Gospel read by someone with sellotape on the end of their nose.

-London-based John Watson is the editor of the UK weekly online magazine The Shaw Sheet - www.shawsheet.com - where he writes as 'Chin Chin'