It’s getting to that time of the year: the time when we think about finding the perfect gift for our best beloved. We fight our way through the ravening hordes (or to the One-Click button) and bring it home–our prize, our trophy; the one thing that will make that special someone’s life complete.
And then, of course, we’ve got to wrap the bloody thing.
Disclaimer: not my cat, clearly. I still have all my fingers, and have not needed 42 stitches across my face, arms or hands. Also: cats aren’t Christmas presents. All they’ll do is snaffle the turkey, steal your spot on the sofa and cast disparaging glances at you when you tell the joke from your cracker. So yeah, cats. Christmas. Do the math.