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I check a more traditional bauble—one with sort of a vintage vibe—but it’s the same price. “That might be because if you’remaking a special trip to London to buy your decorations, you want it to be an experience. I don’t thinkTime Outcan sayif you want to deck out your living room, nip down the nearest Aldi.”
In a fit of barely concealed rage, Jonathan picks up a spindly reindeer with pink shoes and candles on its antlers. “Go on,” he says. “Guess.”
It’s bigger than the bauble, but then again, it’s also uglier. “Hundred quid.”
He points upwards.
“It’s never more than a hundred quid.”
“Hundred and forty.”
From that moment it’s on. We weave together amongst the shelves, each trying to pick the most pointlessly overpriced piece of crap and making the other guess what Fortnums have had the gall to charge for it.
The early rounds go to Jonathan, because the deer had been a pretty inspired opener, and while the musical piano ornament I find in response is moreexpensive, it doesn’t have quite as brilliant a price-to-awfulness ratio. I pull a bit ahead later on with a purple glass fig that has much more of a genital vibe than I’d personally want on a family holiday, and he counters with a tiny fluffy guinea pig in a Santa hat that I actually think looks quite sweet.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s just fluffy, they can’t be charging an arm and a leg for something fluffy. I’m going to say…thirty-five quid?”
Jonathan checks the label. “Twelve.”
I look at him. Then I look at the guinea pig. Then I look at him again. “I think I’ve been here too long, because they’ve tricked me into thinking that’s a reasonable price.”
“Take it from an ex-market trader,” says Jonathan, “that’sexactlythe plan. This little fellow”—he bounces the guinea pig on its decorating loop—“would never fetch more than a fiveranywhere else in the world, but stick him next to one of these”—he holds up a little glass snowman who’s apparently worth thirty-eight pounds—“and he looks like a bargain.”
Although he’s made it pretty clear why the adorable fuzzy Santa rodent is a trap for gullible tourists, he’s not putting it down.
“Are we getting him then?” I ask.
Jonathan looks ever so slightly sheepish. “He is rather cute.”
He takes me by the arm again, and it feels natural, like we do this sort of thing all the time. Though we don’t get far before he stops short.
“We need to get out of here,” he tells me.
I mostly agree, but I want to know what specifically’s set him off. He doesn’t seem able to say it aloud so I just follow his gaze to a display of Christmas crackers. They’re nicely laid out, if a bit basic-looking, a tasteful red colour with silver detailing. The wicker box they come in is a nice touch. But then it’d have to be.
“Imustbe reading that wrong.”
“I don’t think you are.”
“They’re never a grand.”
“Back away and pretend you haven’t seen anything.”
I’m not sure I can. I’m frozen like an underpaid deer in overpriced headlights. “There’s only six of them. What’ve they got inside, cocaine?”
Jonathan has his phone out again, scrolling through something while the little fluffy guinea pig hangs from one finger. “Right,” he says, “new plan. We pay for this little fellow, and then we’re going to B&Q.”
A couple of hours later, we’re back home and I’m helping Jonathan unload a carful of much more reasonably priced Christmas decorations. None of them are reindeers with pink feet or baubles withballet dancers on but, as far as I’m concerned, that’s an advantage. Also, while he’s very sensibly averse to being ripped off, Jonathan isn’t cheap, so we’ve come home with enough stuff to cover his house and garden in whatever theme you might fancy. Buckets of tinsel, miles of chains of beads, hundreds of fairy lights, and more sparkly balls than a season ofRuPaul’s Drag Race.
We leave the stuff in boxes because it’s going to get used tomorrow anyway, and Gollum checks each of them to make sure it’s not a replacement cat, then, when he’s satisfied it’s not, curls up in a pile of tinsel that I know I’ll be picking out of his fur for weeks.
When we’re done, and when I’ve cracked and let Jonathan order us a takeaway to tide us over until the supermarket delivers, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out the Santa guinea pig, which he then hands me, all solemn like.
“What’s this for?” I ask. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I did think he was cute, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the awesome responsibility of owning a fake rodent with festive headgear.”
“It’s tradition,” he tells me. “Everybody in the family has one decoration that’s…it’s a bit silly.”
“It’s Christmas, the whole thing’s silly. We’re sticking bits of plastic on an indoor tree.”
