Jason has a lot on his mind at the moment.
Because we love him no matter what he does, he tends to let this show more at home than he does at work.
He is very distracted and not always thinking entirely clearly about the matter in hand.
Hence Thursday this week.
He got home from work to find an Amazon parcel waiting for him.
We are receiving quite a few at the moment, not because of me buying any more books than usual, but because we are trying to get our Christmas shopping done and dusted and be organised.
This means that when the parcels arrive I never, ever, open them before the children are in bed. I can’t remember what I’ve ordered and when, and all the boxes look the same, and sometimes I get Jason to order tech things because he knows what he’s doing and I don’t. So, regardless of who the parcels are for I pile them all up in a heap and open them later.
Jason was going through his pile when he suddenly opened a slim envelope which happened to have a CD in it.
He looked at it as if he had pulled forth a teensy midget called Michael who had just offered to trim his beard for him.
‘What the hell is this?’
I said, very helpfully: ‘It’s a CD.’
At this point I could not see who it was by, because he was waving it about incredulously.
He looked again.
He looked at me and said: ‘Fuck! I think my account has been hacked. Why the hell would I order this?’
He rushed over to his PC and started tapping away.
I idly picked up the CD he had flung on the table.
It was Amanda Palmer’s new album.
The one I had asked him for when he asked me what I wanted for Christmas.
He paused in his feverish tapping of keys.
I said: ‘It’s my Christmas present.’
He said: ‘Oh!’
Then he looked at it, and looked at me and said: ‘How did I know you wanted that?’
I said: ‘You asked me, about two days ago.’
He said: ‘Oh’
Then he said: ‘Bugger’.