As someone with Aspergers, I usually think most decisions through
to a very lengthy and involved conclusion. Unfortunately, this train of
thought, although extensive and detailed, does not always take in the bigger
picture. Which is why, one Christmas several years ago, I stood before a
discounted job-lot of seasonal wrapping paper and decided it was an offer I
couldn’t refuse. I reasoned that, with the two-dozen rolls they were selling, I
could wrap all of Vanessa’s Christmas presents for the next ten years or so and
save myself both time and money. Brilliant.
The paper itself was a tasteful shade of red. Well, tasteful
if neon and glow-in-the-dark colours are your thing. I thought it was perfect.
It was also covered in glitter, which amplified the red to give a dazzling,
sparkly, and slightly drug-crazed-vision feel. Maybe I’d slip some migraine
tablets in with Vanessa’s first present, just in case. It was only with
hindsight that I realised I should have reflected on why the store-owner wanted
to get rid of it at such a knock down price in the first place. He even threw
in a few more rolls for free.
When it came to wrapping, I laid out a sheet of the paper,
cut it to size, and lifted it up. Beneath was a rectangle of glitter, about
half an inch thick. Clearly, the glue used to stick the damn stuff was more
Teflon than Araldite. I persevered. Soon, the entire wrapping table, the floor,
the lower portion of the walls, and even a few spots on the ceiling were
covered in red glitter. I fetched a dustpan and brush to sweep some of the
excess blizzard but this only served to send it bouncing into the air, where it
stuck on every surface with a static charge. I looked down at my clothes. They
looked like the sort of outfit Dorothy would chose to go with her shoes. I got
the vacuum cleaner. It managed to clear a small area so that the colour of the
carpet began to show through but was soon covered itself. Vanessa arrived home
and asked whether maybe a glitter factory had exploded nearby.
On Christmas Day, when Vanessa came to open her presents, we
both braved the wrapping paper with the same stoicism that the Bedouin brave a
sandstorm. Cover eyes, mouth, and nose, and avoid breathing deeply. The industrial
extractor we fitted above the present-opening surface helped but the house still
resembled a psychedelic seventies-style discothèque once we had finished.
Since that day, we have renovated the house, completely
gutting the interior. We took the floors out, hacked the plaster off the walls.
We even took the bloody roof off. And I still find bits of red glitter remaining.
I imagine if there was a nuclear holocaust the cockroaches – or whatever creature
it is that can withstand a nuclear blast – will awake in a post-apocalyptic
world to find it covered in red glitter. Everything else having been confined
to oblivion.
After Christmas, we took the wrapping paper to a barn, where
I came up with a cunning plan. Anyone who upsets us during the year – and let’s
face it, I’ve got Aspergers, that’s pretty much everyone – gets a present from
us wrapped in red glitter paper. We wrap it outside, in the lowest field next
to the river, and immediately put it into the back of my truck for carriage to
the Post Office. The glitter doesn’t come within a mile of the house and we rub
ourselves down with alcohol wipes afterward. It’s the gift that keeps on
giving, and with 15 rolls still out there, we’ve got plenty to go round.
