Dennis's Presents

At this time of year, I recall the story told to me by Dennis, a waiter friend of mine, who used to work in a Soho club and restaurant. From 1 December until Christmas Eve the restaurant and bars heaved with private parties. The staff were run ragged trying to cater for their demanding and drunken guests.

They worked double shifts, sometimes not finishing until 3 a.m. Dennis described how he would fall exhausted into his bed only to wake seemingly five minutes later to begin another shift. One year, his mother wrote to tell him there was to be a family reunion in Sligo – forty-seven members of the family were to be there. Dennis's family were big on Christmas: they gave each other lovely, carefully chosen presents.

We all have our role in the family, and Dennis's was that of the black sheep. His mother disapproved of his job and considered he had wasted his academic talents. His nine brothers and sisters had respectable professional careers, earned substantial salaries and basked in parental approval. They had also provided them with many beloved grandchildren, whereas Dennis was gay and unlikely to provide them with a single one.

Dennis resolved to spend his wages and tips on buying forty-seven fabulous Christmas presents. He was naturally a spendthrift, but he saved his money and made a list, intending to buy a few presents every day. These gifts would have to be easily transportable because his journey entailed catching a tube train, a train to Holyhead, a ferry, a train to Dublin and a train to Sligo.

However, as the days of December passed and Christmas Eve, the day of departure, loomed, Dennis had yet to buy a single present. It was not until 23 December at midnight that Dennis realized with horror he would have only two hours the next morning before he had to catch his train. Instead of going home to rest, pack and prepare for the shopping marathon, he stayed up late drinking and bemoaning his fate. He slept late, woke in a panic and left the house on Christmas Eve morning without a bag or toothbrush.

‘I'll buy a change of clothes on the way,’ he thought, but presents were his priority. Foolishly he went to the West End. Idiotically he went to Hamleys toy shop on Regent Street. He had forgotten his list and fought his way through the heaving crowds of frantic parents and over-excited children, grabbing at anything he could reach. He chose very unwisely: heavy things, large things, difficult-to-carry things. Now for the adult presents. He staggered up Regent Street looking wildly in shop windows (those he could get near to). His bags were a burden. He barged into any shop he could get both himself and his bags into. Once again he bought anything he could reach or afford.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking horribly fast towards his departure time and his bags proliferated and grew heavier. He became drenched in a panicky sweat. He knew that if he missed a certain train he would be spending Christmas at Holyhead ferry terminal alone, apart from his bags.

Eventually he realized he had reached the absolute limit of what he could carry. The nearest tube station was beyond his reach. After many tortuous minutes of failing to stop a black cab, he started to weep. Unable to put his bags down, his tears went unwiped. His sweat dried. There had been no time to buy new clothes.

A miracle happened: a black cab stopped and the driver got out and helped him with the dozens of bags he'd accumulated. He only just caught the train to Holyhead. His account of dragging his bags across the station concourse towards the soon-departing train was painful to hear. His entire journey home was the stuff of nightmares. Grimm's fairytales come to mind.

A young man tries to redeem himself and is given a task: to struggle with intolerable burdens (the bags) across hostile terrain (London to Sligo) against a strict deadline (Christmas Day).

When he eventually arrived at his parents' house he was greeted in amazement by the forty-seven. They were not only shocked by his dishevelled, wild-eyed appearance, but the fact he had bought them all a present. ‘Did I forget to tell you?’ said his mother. ‘We agreed to buy no presents this year; we've all given £25 to War on Want instead.’ Dennis was so exhausted by his ordeal he slept for most of the holiday.