When I left the north of Eire for the College of Glasgow 20 years in the past, I threw myself into town’s laborious‑partying way of life with all of the vigour you’d count on of a Presbyterian pastor’s daughter raised amid the weirdness of Nineteen Nineties Belfast. My first time period was a whirl of dancing to techno music in railway arches and warehouses, making new buddies at 10am at afterparties within the kitchens of tenement flats. I slept on strangers’ carpets, wrapped in my huge leopard-print faux-fur coat from a classic retailer referred to as Starry Starry Night time. I wore a fluffy hat that doubled up as a pillow. I barely ate something strong and barely noticed daylight – not that Glaswegian daylight is something to write down house about.
After a very wild week of events turning into afterparties turning into pub daytime periods turning into events once more, I woke as much as the realisation it was 23 December, time period was over and I needed to catch my practice to the ferry and residential for Christmas. As I threw jumpers and odd socks right into a grubby American Attire holdall, it dawned on me that I hadn’t purchased a single Christmas current.
Fortunately, there was a department of Fopp simply exterior Glasgow Central station, which offered CDs and vinyl and surprisingly low-cost cult-classic books. Strolling across the retailer in a daze, my eyes landed on the brand new Moby album, Play, which had acquired rave evaluations. I purchased 10 copies and croaked a request to have them gift-wrapped, ignoring the quizzical glances of the checkout employees. I dragged myself on to the practice to Stranraer and fell asleep with my fluffy hat pulled down laborious over my eyes.
By Christmas morning, I used to be in Belfast – and in much less of a stupor. My household gathered across the tree, exchanging considerate, private presents. My sister Naomi had purchased me Anne Lamott’s e book Chook By Chook, filled with anecdotes about writing, as a result of she knew I needed to be a author. Mum and Dad purchased me a elaborate Millican rucksack, as a result of they knew I liked to journey. My brother Peter had chosen me an artwork deco classic necklace, as a result of I was now at Glasgow college and as soon as talked about Charles Rennie Waterproof coat.
That is what my presents – or current – had been up in opposition to. Dad, AKA the Rev Hart, opened my present. The Moby Play album! OK! Mum opened hers. The Moby Play album! How considerate! My sister opened hers … you get the concept.
I sat there smiling at my household, attempting to fake {that a} single smart thought had gone into my Christmas procuring (or, certainly, my whole time period) whereas they feigned gratitude and shock like absolute heroes, plainly questioning what had occurred to their previously considerate and conscientious relative.
That Christmas was excruciating. However it was additionally the shameful festive catch-yourself-on second that I wanted. Once I went again to college, it was with my head screwed on a bit extra firmly. I went to lectures; I went to mattress. However I’ve by no means listened to a Moby album since.
Supply hyperlink