I’ve officially pinned my Christmas list to the fridge! (I haven’t really, because I haven’t got that coveted sort of fridge that accepts magnets – but if I was lucky enough to have said fridge, my Christmas list would now have pride of place). There’s only one thing on the list so far. Gone are the days when I would trawl painstakingly through the Argos catalogue, oh-so-carefully compiling a list of tacky toys (and tackier jewellery – don’t mention the jewellery) – catalogue numbers and everything, for I wouldn’t have wanted Santa to have any difficulty in his(/her) navigation of the catalogue – that I just had to have, all the while eating ketchup sandwiches. I was a classy kid, okay? So anyway, back to more current affairs: the only thing on the list is a record player. My ever expanding record collection is becoming ever more obselete, because I have no player to play them on in my flat. I mean, obviously they are nice just to look at/admire/study longingly, but I definitely want a bit more crackle in my life. The boy was less than impressed with my request, because he says it will be as much a present for him as for me; this being true, I told him to feel free to bestow me with plenty more surprises, as long as I can open them to the crackling sound of A Girl Called Dusty.
