I SHOULD have known better than to peek, but I couldn’t help myself. And now Christmas is ruined, because everyone has bought me all the wrong things from my Amazon wish list.
That book? Really? It’s been on there since 2016. Those headphones? Clearly superseded by the other, better headphones. That novelty Galactus bottle-opener? Just there to pad things out.
I curate a beautiful list. I arrange the items I wish to receive by priority, so nobody can be in any doubt. I send it out at the beginning of December, smiling munificently as I await my harvest.
But like a flock of panicked chickens chasing the rumour of corn I watch as you peck items from the list, ignoring the direction in which you have been steered.
I blame myself. I should never have overestimated your intelligence. My plan was not foolproof, as you fools have proved.
Next year, I’ll operate a one-in-one-out system. Each of you will get a separate, individual wishlist, each with one item on it. That way order will be preserved.
Because getting exactly what you want but paid for by someone else, is the true meaning of Christmas. And anyone who says it isn’t is lying.
