But what do the presents you buy for your nearest and dearest, wrapped with all their exciting possibility and probable disappointment, reveal about you? And, more tellingly, how you feel about the recipient?
There are several categories of gift-giving, ranging from the “whatever”, which is the “you’re unimportant and this is more of a duty” present (see socks, ties, pointless dust-gathering ornaments, drinks coasters, and all amusing books by the till at Waterstone’s) to “self-serving”, as in “this is what I would really like myself, and buying it for you means I will get the benefit” (paintings, hand-tooled his’n’ hers luggage, juicing machines, box sets of the past 20 years of Top Gear, high- definition, widescreen plasma televisions, weekend breaks to Acapulco). This is a classic example of “I am giving you the cake because I really want to eat it”.
Then there is the most revealing of all: “selfish git” — the “I am buying this for the person I want you to be, and hopefully it will change you” present. This is a particularly dangerous area and has been the catalyst for many a festive fracas which, if left to fester, can become a very big stick that you will be beaten with during all subsequent arguments for the rest of your life.
For men, the danger areas are anything domestic. Canvassing girlfriends, I am staggered to report the number of Hoovers, ironing boards and irons, dishwashers, kettles, rubber gloves and assorted labour-saving devices that have been passed off as exciting and thoughtful gifts. What these say is: “You are a bit of a slut and I really wish I had married Martha Stewart.”
Women, in turn, need to remember exactly how fragile the male ego can be. A year’s supply of Viagra is possibly not the most sensitive gift, neither is miracle hair grow, arch supports, shoe lifts or back-waxing kits. We all want to feel that a cleverly researched gift is the icing on the cake of a perfect relationship, rather than the incipient disappointment of someone who seemingly no longer cares about your feelings.
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I have a friend with supermodel looks and a perfect figure who, after several failed attempts at IVF, gave birth to twins last November. As is only natural, during her pregnancy she had gained weight and given up on her disciplined daily run to incubate her longed-for babies. When a woman is enduring sleepless nights, cracked nipples and postnatal depression, it is so not a good idea for a husband to smugly hand her an annual subscription to Slimming World and a lifetime gym membership for Christmas. This previously kind and caring man was entirely mystified as to why she loaded the car with changing mats, bottles, Babygros and wailing infants before demanding a divorce and disappearing to her mother’s. It quite rightly cost him a large Tiffany diamond and a live-in nanny to convince her otherwise.
It doesn’t just apply to partners either. A relation of mine who must remain nameless — Brian — was clearly concerned that his six-year-old son was spending rather too much time playing with his sister’s Malibu Barbie and pleading to be allowed to join her at ballet class. Santa’s not-so-politically-correct gift that year was a perfect replica 9mm Uzi. Hearing you, Rambo.
Even so-called joke presents can contain a sting in the tail. Stocking fillers of nose- and ear-hair-trimmers, anti-fungal toenail tincture, or Trinny and Tranny fat pants, can all cause mild consternation and should be avoided.
With mail order and myriad internet sites, there really is no excuse for getting it wrong. And why would you not do everything in your power to make it a stress-free and happy holiday for your loved ones? A few years ago, I gave my 40-plus sister Simply Looking Good by Jan Leeming, filled with helpful tips about not allowing the menopause to be an excuse to let yourself go. Last year, she gave it back to me. Point taken.