What do you buy your 14 year old son for his birthday?
Even he himself told me the other day that he has everything he wants. Yes, we have Sky TV (previous joint birthdays with brother, or some deal or other, I can't quite remember). Yes, we have an Xbox, but he only likes playing FIFA and NBA and has those, and doesn't want any other games. Yes, I've told friends and family to get iTunes cards, so won't be buying one myself. Yes, I've looked on the website of the football team he supports, and have considered mugs, calendars and the like. No, he doesn't read many books or play many board games any more (waaah). No, he doesn't even use his Nintendo DS these days. No, I'm not getting another dog.
So apart from a trip to buy trainers of some description (what is it with boys and trainers?), I am at a loss. I'm not a believer in spending money for the sake of it, but you have to mark your off-spring's birthdays.
Does anyone have any experience of slacklines? They seem to be the in thing. Could be fun?
And for those of you with a younger boy, relish the birthdays, is all I can say. Enjoy looking on Amazon and agonising over the myriad of options, all of which you know would be a hit. Enjoy diverting your trolley into the toys aisle when you're at Sainsbury's, and having to resist piling into it more and still more things you know he'd love. Enjoy going into your local toy shop for a few little extras, and finding those hidden treasures at pocket money prices: fake dog poo, key rings, wind-up figures, plastic things that have no purpose other than to light up and look interesting. Enjoy it all, because a Sky TV subscription is ruinously expensive (after that oh-so-tempting introductory offer for the first year), and you can't wrap it up and watch his face when he opens it.
Alas. The passing of time...
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Showing posts with label presents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label presents. Show all posts
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Chocolate Mingles and Jingles
This post is a review post.
So when I discovered that the Hotel Chocolat website could cope with this, it became my go-to place for presents. After all, who doesn't like receiving chocolate? And it's such high-class chocolate. Tasty, imaginative, a feast for the eyes as well as the taste buds. One thing I love about the website, is that there's a good range of prices. You can give someone a treat without it being ridiculously expensive. I find it the ideal present for a family.
Hotel Chocolat sent me this lovely bag of delights.
A 'Mingles and Jingles Bag' it's called. See? What did I say about "imaginative"? Would you have dreamt up that catchy title? White chocolate bells, dark chocolate penguins, and milk caramel angels, 2 inches tall, individually wrapped, in a pretty sack-ette, plain yet sparkly, that any aspiring Santa would be pleased to be ho-ho-ho-ing down the chimney with. Lovely presentation, and well-packaged, so no worries about boxes arriving through the post bashed and mis-shapen. These people really understand the concept of a luxury gift - but I was also interested to read about their social conscience.
There's a promotion on at the moment on their website. If you spend £60 on chocolates (I know, I know, but if you were buying for several people, perhaps?), you get a free gift sent to your home address.
Yes, Hotel Chocolat definitely gets the Iota seal of approval. This year, a bag of chocolates. Next year, I'm hoping they might want me to review their hotel on the isle of St Lucia.
This was a review post. I received a 'Mingles and Jingles Bag' from Hotel Chocolat, valued £21. The opinions and writing in the review are my own.
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Friday, February 1, 2013
I'm not one of the 1 in 8 British adults
According to the Daily Mail (which I don't read, I saw the quote elsewhere), 1 in 8 British adults own a onesie.
Nooooooo.....!
I remember well the day I was shopping, deep in the heart of America's Midwest, in Target, with my sister-in-law who was visiting from London. We saw an adult fleecy onesie for sale, and we both had to suppress a nauseous reaction. If we weren't physically gagging, we were very nearly doing so. I seem to remember being vaguely comforted by the idea that this was America, and we couldn't imagine these abominations would ever catch on in Britain. Alas. How wrong we were.
Why, oh why, would any self-respecting adult buy a onesie? Is that it? Have those who bought onesies done so as a statement of lost self-respect? Is it a way of getting referred for therapy on the NHS? Do you go to your GP, and say "Not only do I struggle with feelings of depression, but I've also bought a onesie"? Or were those millions of onesies all bought by people who didn't know what else to get friends and relations for Christmas?
A onesie. It's a step down from a slanket, and that's saying something.
Do you wear a onesie like pyjamas? In which case, aren't the soles of your feet all dirty when you go to bed? Or do you wear it like a dressing gown - over your pyjamas? In which case, isn't it just horribly bulky, like Michelin Man? Does it make you feel like you're in a fleecy version of Star Trek? Don't you get very cold when you go to the loo? Do you find yourself hopping about, crossing your legs, sucking in your breath, while you fumble with that long, long zip? Or poppers? Please don't tell me you have poppers.
Please, if you're a 1 in 8, enlighten me. 'Fess up. Are YOU one of them?
Nooooooo.....!
I remember well the day I was shopping, deep in the heart of America's Midwest, in Target, with my sister-in-law who was visiting from London. We saw an adult fleecy onesie for sale, and we both had to suppress a nauseous reaction. If we weren't physically gagging, we were very nearly doing so. I seem to remember being vaguely comforted by the idea that this was America, and we couldn't imagine these abominations would ever catch on in Britain. Alas. How wrong we were.
Why, oh why, would any self-respecting adult buy a onesie? Is that it? Have those who bought onesies done so as a statement of lost self-respect? Is it a way of getting referred for therapy on the NHS? Do you go to your GP, and say "Not only do I struggle with feelings of depression, but I've also bought a onesie"? Or were those millions of onesies all bought by people who didn't know what else to get friends and relations for Christmas?
A onesie. It's a step down from a slanket, and that's saying something.
Do you wear a onesie like pyjamas? In which case, aren't the soles of your feet all dirty when you go to bed? Or do you wear it like a dressing gown - over your pyjamas? In which case, isn't it just horribly bulky, like Michelin Man? Does it make you feel like you're in a fleecy version of Star Trek? Don't you get very cold when you go to the loo? Do you find yourself hopping about, crossing your legs, sucking in your breath, while you fumble with that long, long zip? Or poppers? Please don't tell me you have poppers.
Please, if you're a 1 in 8, enlighten me. 'Fess up. Are YOU one of them?
Monday, July 2, 2012
You disappoint me, John Lewis
One of the things that was annoying about living abroad, was that so few online retailers are geared up for you as a customer. I can't tell you the number of times I tried to order a present for a friend or family member in the UK, only to find out that I couldn't pay because my credit card had a US address. Why didn't you keep a UK credit card?, I hear you ask. I did. But even my UK credit card has a US billing address. Because the billing address is where you live. Not all of us have two houses.
Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.
Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?
The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.
So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).
Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.
.
Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.
Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?
The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.
So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).
Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.
.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Iota's mother's loft: final instalment
I couldn't call this post Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part IV for reasons which will become apparent.
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
New York, New York: Part II
One of my problems in life is that I find it difficult to write short blog posts. I used to be able to, but now I can’t. It’s not so much that the Muse has left me, as that the Muse sits around for too long each time she visits. Anyway, a sneaky little trick that I’ve used before to cover up my embarrassing problem is this: I write one blog post, and then I chop it in half and call it Part I and Part II. So without further ado about nothing, here is New York, New York Part II, also known as
The Harley Davidson story
It was a surprise birthday present for my sister-in-law, organized by Charlesinparis. She’s always wanted to go on a Harley (you don’t say the Davidson bit, apparently). She had the chance to do so on holiday in Australia a few years ago, turned it down, and has regretted it ever since. All she knew was that we had to be somewhere at 2.30pm. Throughout the morning, the odd hint was dropped about helicopter trips. Sneaky, huh?
At 2.30 we were waiting to cross a street, and she nudged my arm. “Look at that gorgeous Harley”. This was something of a conversational gift for me. “Have you ever been on one?” I asked innocently. “No” she said, and told me about Australia. “Would you still like a ride on one?”, which I realized as soon as I’d asked it was something of a dangerous question, since it would have been a disaster if she had replied “Oh no, it was just a passing fancy, and frankly what a waste of time and money that would have been”. Luckily she didn’t - phew - and with perfect timing worthy of the most predictable movie script, as we crossed the road towards the gleaming burgundy Harley, she said “I’d absolutely LOVE a ride on a Harley.” (Burgundy... One might even think plum-coloured, if one had read this…)
By this point I really did feel as if we were acting out a movie script. Perhaps there’s a ham actor in us all. Charlie kept it going admirably. He simply went up to the Harley rider, said “Hi Neil”, and shook hands. “Hi Charles” said Neil. “Nice bike” said Charlie, “Mind if I take a picture of it?” "Be my guest" said Neil.
At this point, I was watching my sister-in-law’s face, and I can tell you that the penny hadn’t dropped. She was puzzled but not suspicious. “This is my wife”, continued Charlie, and she shook Neil’s hand, her face fixed in a warm smile that did her great credit. Outwardly all warmth and smiles, inwardly desperately thinking “I haven’t a clue who this man is or how my husband knows him or what is going on here - keep smiling, girl, just keep smiling”. Really, she should be in the diplomatic service.
“Would you like to take her for a ride on your bike?” asked Charlie, and at that moment, I saw that penny drop. The smile unfixed itself, and became a grin of delight. Delight, realization, amusement, anticipation, a hint of embarrassment perhaps, sheer enjoyment of the moment – it was all in there.
Charlie had made sure she was dressed warmly, since we’d got the first ferry to the Statue of Liberty (and boy, was it cold queueing for tickets at 8.00 in the morning in Battery Park). So with the addition of sunglasses and a helmet (which I had to help her do up, as her hands were a bit shaky with all the excitement), she was all ready to go. And off they went.
Oh, I’ve missed one of my favourite moments. It was when they were both installed on the bike, just getting comfy. My sister-in-law couldn’t quite see where to put her hands (not obvious), so asked Neil “Is it ok if I put my hands on your waist?” He must have been in on the movie script thing, because he replied in a bit of a drawl “You can put your hands just wherever you like”.
Apparently you can have a good chat on a Harley. I’d assumed that the noise of the engine would drown out all conversation, but my sister-in-law and Neil had quite a natter, both on the bike and when they stopped for coffee to warm up (it was pretty cold on the bike, even with warm clothes). They started off through Central Park (“always a nice ride” said Neil), headed up into Harlem (“the bits you might not go to on your own”), and then sped around and cruised around for two and a half hours, with that one stop for coffee. My sister-in-law, the Biker.
All I can say is, Charlesinparis, if this is a precedent for birthday presents to your wife, that’s some challenge you’ve set yourself for the years ahead.
The Harley Davidson story
It was a surprise birthday present for my sister-in-law, organized by Charlesinparis. She’s always wanted to go on a Harley (you don’t say the Davidson bit, apparently). She had the chance to do so on holiday in Australia a few years ago, turned it down, and has regretted it ever since. All she knew was that we had to be somewhere at 2.30pm. Throughout the morning, the odd hint was dropped about helicopter trips. Sneaky, huh?
At 2.30 we were waiting to cross a street, and she nudged my arm. “Look at that gorgeous Harley”. This was something of a conversational gift for me. “Have you ever been on one?” I asked innocently. “No” she said, and told me about Australia. “Would you still like a ride on one?”, which I realized as soon as I’d asked it was something of a dangerous question, since it would have been a disaster if she had replied “Oh no, it was just a passing fancy, and frankly what a waste of time and money that would have been”. Luckily she didn’t - phew - and with perfect timing worthy of the most predictable movie script, as we crossed the road towards the gleaming burgundy Harley, she said “I’d absolutely LOVE a ride on a Harley.” (Burgundy... One might even think plum-coloured, if one had read this…)
By this point I really did feel as if we were acting out a movie script. Perhaps there’s a ham actor in us all. Charlie kept it going admirably. He simply went up to the Harley rider, said “Hi Neil”, and shook hands. “Hi Charles” said Neil. “Nice bike” said Charlie, “Mind if I take a picture of it?” "Be my guest" said Neil.
At this point, I was watching my sister-in-law’s face, and I can tell you that the penny hadn’t dropped. She was puzzled but not suspicious. “This is my wife”, continued Charlie, and she shook Neil’s hand, her face fixed in a warm smile that did her great credit. Outwardly all warmth and smiles, inwardly desperately thinking “I haven’t a clue who this man is or how my husband knows him or what is going on here - keep smiling, girl, just keep smiling”. Really, she should be in the diplomatic service.
“Would you like to take her for a ride on your bike?” asked Charlie, and at that moment, I saw that penny drop. The smile unfixed itself, and became a grin of delight. Delight, realization, amusement, anticipation, a hint of embarrassment perhaps, sheer enjoyment of the moment – it was all in there.
Charlie had made sure she was dressed warmly, since we’d got the first ferry to the Statue of Liberty (and boy, was it cold queueing for tickets at 8.00 in the morning in Battery Park). So with the addition of sunglasses and a helmet (which I had to help her do up, as her hands were a bit shaky with all the excitement), she was all ready to go. And off they went.
Oh, I’ve missed one of my favourite moments. It was when they were both installed on the bike, just getting comfy. My sister-in-law couldn’t quite see where to put her hands (not obvious), so asked Neil “Is it ok if I put my hands on your waist?” He must have been in on the movie script thing, because he replied in a bit of a drawl “You can put your hands just wherever you like”.
Apparently you can have a good chat on a Harley. I’d assumed that the noise of the engine would drown out all conversation, but my sister-in-law and Neil had quite a natter, both on the bike and when they stopped for coffee to warm up (it was pretty cold on the bike, even with warm clothes). They started off through Central Park (“always a nice ride” said Neil), headed up into Harlem (“the bits you might not go to on your own”), and then sped around and cruised around for two and a half hours, with that one stop for coffee. My sister-in-law, the Biker.
All I can say is, Charlesinparis, if this is a precedent for birthday presents to your wife, that’s some challenge you’ve set yourself for the years ahead.
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