Just under a week ago, young blood and I exchanged presents. I bought him Ecce Homo on the grounds that a philosopher's last desperate attempt to jump over the paretic divide back into sanity would somehow help our kid make the conceptual leaps necessary in the kind of maths he's studying. Well, it made sense at the time. I was going to double it up with Listen Little Man, another deranged testament from a good man going down, but I couldn't find it.
Anyway, our kid gave me a bottle of port. Not bog standard make-your-auntie-giggly-port, but Clare College's own port, served at formal meals with dishes of fried jumping spider and the roasted children of the local working classes. The kind of port cellared for hundreds of years, since the days when unwanted minor aristocrats were drowned in butts of sack and left to mature.
It has a pleasant, tangy aftertaste.
So, then I went for a glass and he put the book on one side, where it will probably remain for some time. We've turned into a couple of chaps, I thought, exchanging civilised presents. Funny how things turn out.