Presents of greatness

Come July, it is always the same: what the hell should I buy myself for my birthday?

- Greg Dixon

The Victorian artist and poet William Morris famously said, or is said to have said, that one should have nothing in one's house that one does not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful. With this as my creed, I have given myself, at various times, a chainsaw and a book about firewood. I will leave it to you to decide what category those fell into.

This business of self-gifting has arisen not because I do not trust Michele to get me something beautiful or useful for my annual celebration of not dying for another year. It's just that for one birthday about a quarter of a century ago she bought me a deep fat fryer.

I was not sure, and remain completely mystified, what this said about me. Was I oily? Was I hot? Did I smell of chips?

We used the thing, which looked like a toy version of what you encounter at a dodgy suburban fish and chippy, only once. It required what seemed like 40 gallons of cooking oil, splattered hot grease about like some sort of weapon of mass destruction and left Michele, the cat and the house smelling of chips, just like me.