The Ceremony of the Meaningless Statuette

But once our pomegranates are aligned with the great tortoise migration routes across the Great Plains of Luton, then we can attach the cabbages to the necessary devices and then we will be prepared. We will, of course, need a suitably-oiled film actress for the all-important Ceremony of the Meaningless Statuette awarded for being quite good at playing Dressing-Up and Pretend, and - at least - a bevy of camerapersons to capture the triviality of the event for all posterity.

You may snigger, mutter to yourself and skulk off to caress the several volumes of your stamp collection deep in the shadowed recesses of your boudoir, but both Steve and I know where you keep the unopened jars of marmalade and what you do with the discarded remnants of yesterday's unread sections of your daily newspaper.

You would think that someone as urbane and sophisticated as Steve would not snort in derision at your pristine underwear and over-elaborate bathroom preparations, but he has travelled the world and spent several nights alone in the dark forests of Kidderminster. He has known the cold dread of facing up to the pimpled excesses of the uniformed shop assistant found within the very bowels of the largest computer retail chains and he has lived to tell the tale of stultified bewilderment that so often meets even the most simplest of requests. You cannot scare him by merely thrusting junk mail into his face. He has seen it all, and smelt most of it. He does not know the meaning of the word fear.

So, for his next birthday, I'm going to buy Steve a dictionary.