A close up of Madam Butterfly before jumping into a warm bed

Love Chunks has been my main squeeze since 1993 so buying gifts is getting more and more difficult each year.

He usually ends up with a DVD or a book that is more my taste than his because anything else he wants or likes is sorted/found/purchased at the time of need. His electronic piano is a good example - he knew what type he needed in order to still keep playing without antagonising the neighbours; did his research on features, costs and availability and made the necessary arrangements. The end result sees him happy, our bank balance lighter and a reasonable excuse to 'only get me a card' for his birthday and Christmas this year.

However, when it was his birthday, I didn't want to just write a card (that in itself gets more difficult after eighteen years of togetherness. It isn't acceptable to take the Hollywood executive approach and remake old classics or borrow lines from my twenty four year old self 'I look forward to seeing you come back from prac teaching in Port Pirie in your brown cortina'). Love Chunks deserved something quirky and unique: something that would remind him of our time here in Geneva.

Considering that he's a meteorologist, talented home chef, pianist, runner, AFL-watcher and IKEA Allen key conquerer, he clearly needed:

Opera glasses from 1806. Made in Geneva at a spot by the river that now seems to be frequented by alcoholics and drug dealers. Yeah, I'm nothing if not considerate of his interests and concerned with practicalities.

Of course he has no interest in attending an opera and I've only been to one (suffered through Pagliacci with my mother in 1994) but the weathered style of these little guys and the date and the fact that there are antiques and old bits and bobs at flea markets for cheapish prices if you're prepared to rummage and haggle and take your time is addictive. And very enjoyable.

But was that enough - ocular devices long past their relevance? Of course not, so he also got this:

A nineteenth century copper bed warmer. More than one person commented that it could be used to quell any arguments if the gift wasn't appreciated - CLANG!

Thankfully, he loved them both.

Un-Mothers' Day gift ideas

It's that time of year again when my letterbox is no longer full of Christmas, Back to School, Valentine's Day or Easter bargains, but the inevitable Mothers' Day dreck.














It was almost enough to put me off my chocolate, but not quite: they were handy for catching the cocoa dust as I sliced through the truffles.

Here I present to you, today, some of the gift suggestions on offer by some of the largest purveyors of goods to women who may have borne a child or seven in this country. Be prepared to feel dismayed, depressed and a tad grumpy and hope that, should you fall into the category as 'mother' that you instead end up with a box of service-station Ferreros three months past their due date and some soggy carnations peppered with car fumes due to sitting in a bucket for three hours by the roadside rather than any of these 'gifts'.

















Firstly, Myer. Yes, they say that they're 'our store' but want us to believe that the average mother (aged, say, between 20 and 80) is keen to spray a Bit-O-Brit on their bodies.

The answer, is um, no. NO. I don't care if it's called Curious, Furious or Spurious, most mothers would rather spray on the aroma of someone who is a tad more likely to remember to wear bras during custody hearings and be able to confidently flick the 'on' switch whilst performing. Try selling us a Streep Spritzer, an Eau de Cate Blanchett cologne or a Michelle Obama atomizer and you might be onto something. Hell, even a Mother Teresa Toilette would work.




















K-Mart, too, seemed to have gone for the Britney-mated-with-a-lurex-sleazebag look on their brochure emblazoned with 'Make your Mum's Day!'

Now my Mum would tell those three little tarts to "Stop slouching, brush your hair (in fact, put it up so it's out of your face and looks a bit neater), don't point your toes inwards and we'd all like to know where are you off to; the Blue Light Disco in 1984?" Actually she wouldn't have said the last bit; that was me, and the chick on the right is holding a pose not unlike the way I spent most of last week with my Provider of Pain, or neck if you want to be pedantic.




















Aldi have decided that these sensual slip ons are THE MONEY for Mothers' Day. Oooh yeah, they've got Aegis antibacterial treatment that protects them against odour, staining and deterioration: I'm sold! And any shoe that comes in a 'musk' has gotta be sexy, right?













Angus and Robertson think that we all need a book on how to make really wild tea cosies. Like the one on the front cover; think Noddy on acid or the severed testicles of many an unhappy Kermit and you'd have to start wondering just what the hell is in the tea they're drinking. ......Wouldn't you, or are the musk slippers starting to make perfect sense now?
















My surname might be Lockett with the extra 't' but I don't see the need in wearing one that describes just one of my job titles. Why don't they have other common descriptions that apply to loads of people in modern society such as 'Administrator', 'Dole Bludger', 'Government Lackey' and 'Fatso' ?

If I'm forgetful or in the early undetected stages of Alzheimers I'd personally prefer to wear a dog tag with my name, address and phone number on it.




















Ah, the Reject Shop. Who wouldn't feel loved if their child handed them a gift with the receipt for the Reject Shop stapled to the back of the card?

And who doesn't need a heated fleecy scarf in inflamed-uterus pink with pockets to slip hot plastic heat pouches into? Me, for one.

If you find yourself utterly unable to venture outside without wearing a flattened oesophagus around your neck and clutching sweaty plastic pouches in your hands then feel free to join me in my continuing quest to continue to chat to strangers on public transport. You'd be a hit on the 57 tram because you'd keep the souvlakis warm and easily score a date drinking long necks under the railway bridge after the journey.















Well, who wouldn't feel special if they got a BODY TRIM meal system from their offspring?

"Hey Mum, you're fat. Really FAT. Too fat, even, for an Angus and Robertson book voucher. But hey, have this instead. And keep a distance of at least twenty metres behind me when we're out in public until you're physically able to bend down again and lace your shoes without breaking into a sweat and farting like a trumpet, okay?"




















Another catalogue from Myer. No.

Just no.




















Now this is a book that really speaks to me. Which means there's no way that either Sapphire or Love Chunks will get it.

And that's a good thing. Tonight Sapph shooed me out of her room, saying, "I'm making you something for Mothers' Day, so GET OUT."

Good.