Drinking coffee in Cafe Nero I became entranced by a man at a table opposite me who was meticulously wrapping up a gift. I am as poor at wrapping stuff up as I am at anything that requires any art, dexterity or patience and anything that doesn't consist of just straight edges (and to be honest even things that should be easy like books or DVDs) will end up with scrumpled corners stuck down with copious sellotape. My clumpy little hands and tiny fingers were not made to be artful, just to bang clumsily at a keyboard spelling out ever more inventive swear words.
But this fella was not of the same school of fold and scrunch and stick as I am. He was taking his time, trimming away excess paper with tiny scissors, making sure every fold was precise and perfect. He was only wrapping a DVD (something that would take me approximately 45 seconds at most) but still every single step of the wrapping journey was cogitated upon before he would attempt to complete. Sometimes he would be unhappy with what he had done, pull a face and carefully unpeel the sellotape to trim off another slither of paper. To begin with I thought he was good at wrapping presents and was just being a perfectionist, but as this went on for minute after minute I began to wonder if he was as clumsy and cack-handed as me, but was making an extra special effort because he particularly wanted to impress the recipient of this gift. It became clear that this was a gift of love and had the object of his affection seen the trouble he was going to wrapping this love token, then she (or he) would have had to have had a heart of stone not to be impressed by this doting precisionist. Hopefully they would notice how much care had been taken, though I have to say that had it been me opening the present it's not something I would have taken much heed of. I hope his devotion did not go unnoticed.
The spectacle certainly warmed my cockles (I said cockles). It is tiny acts of humanity like this that can make one see the beauty in life. You have to love love -on every day apart from St Skeletor's Day, of course. If this was February 15th I would have had to grab the gift off him and stamp it into the ground, but today I could just watch and smile and remember the times when I was a soppy, romantic fool who would make such ultimately futile gestures, before the women I loved in turn ripped out my heart, put it on an anvil and splatted it with a sledgehammer and then placed it back in my chest. But seeing another man embarking on that journey to emotional oblivion, with optimism shining from his eyes, did give me hope that my heart had at least one more sledgehammer's worth of love in it. Like a ming vase destroyed by a man tripping over his shoe laces on a stair-case the heart can be repaired by an expert, though the cracks will always be there.
My vicarious pleasure at another man's burgeoning devotion was slightly tempered when I noticed the gift he was giving was a DVD of the film
Elizabethtown, which I haven't seen, but judging from the poster and the reviews is probably quite bad and sick-making and only an idiot would like it. But then what matter. If this man liked it and thought that the person he loved would enjoy it too, then all this punctilious effort would be worthwhile. My enjoyment was scarcely tempered by the fact that either this man or his love or both had terrible taste in films. If they both had terrible taste then it was good that they were together. But my abiding fear was that the man would hand over the gift and the object of his affections would look in wonder at the paper and comment on what an impeccable job he had done, and then open it up and say "Elizabethtown? Did you really think I'd like this? You fucking idiot. Get out of here, I never want to see you again. Where's my anvil?"
