Over the years, the joy of watching Antiques Roadshow has changed. At first we itched to see someone’s face light up on being told that the old pot with the daffs in it was a Ming vase worth millions. Now we tune in to see smug owners being disabused of the notion that the daub off the kitchen wall is a priceless masterpiece.
Their crestfallen expressions make for unmissable TV, above all because of the evident rage and disappointment that bubbles through the obligatory but oh-so-thin veneer of good grace that the circumstances demand.
Wonderful stuff to take in from your armchair. Until, that is, ChristmasDay. Then it is all-too easy to find your own home filled with the same rage and disappointment, the same wholly unconvincing good grace, that had seemed so entertaining on the small screen. Present buying is a minefield, especially if you are a man.
“Do you like it darling?” you ask nervously, as your beloved contemplates the unwrapped green cardigan (she hates green, she has said so 1,000 times. She has blue eyes, not that you’ve ever noticed). “I got it in XXL, I thought it would be more comfortable a bit baggy,” you venture, hoping that her opened-mouthed silence is simply an expression of stunned awe at your extraordinary gift for giving gifts.
She may be stunned. But it’s not awe. It’s a processing delay – the kind that prompts your computer to display a spinning hourglass – while she tries to work out how she ended up with a moron like you. This period may last some time. And if, instead of a green cardigan, you have bought her some novelty lingerie, it may result in her taking what my PC chillingly describes as a “fatal exception” to your union.
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