Dear Santa. please bring me some more landfill

My daughter’s Christmas list reads like an Anglo-Saxon poem: it’s about 100 pages long and everything alliterates: Pony in my Pocket playpark; Baby Born, Barbie Bicycle set… What worries me is that although she will pine for an item for months, the VERY MOMENT she has removed the last layer of plastic wrapping, the light in her eyes goes out. What, this old piece of tat? It’s, like, two and a half nanoseconds old!
If there’s such a thing as a compulsive shopping gene, she has it. She’ll be the type of teenager who moons over pictures of belts/boots/bags in Grazia, and is able to read the annoying little captions – ‘Gotta have it!’ ‘Add a pop of colour!’ – without gagging. Worse, she’ll probably drag me round shopping malls when I’m too old to resist. ‘You can never have enough shoes, Mother!’. ‘But I’m in a wheelchair!’
I’ve taken to preceding the handing over of each new toy or treat with a heartrending true story of poverty in the Developing World, in an effort to curb her consumerist tendancies. ‘And so, this little boy’s daddy decided he would make more money begging if he was disabled. So the boy’s daddy broke his arms and his legs, so that from then on he could only scuttle like a crab. Now, here’s your new Bratz doll…’ It kind of takes the shine off things.


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