I have an embarrassing secret. I love getting presents. I know it is supposed to be more blessed to give than to receive. I know that 50% of all Christmas gifts are grudging Secret Santa purchases, and 100% of those are always the third item in a Boots 3-for-2 special – a Soap & Glory shower puff. And I know I’m too old and too ugly for stockings and surprises. First, I’m at a truly privileged point in my life where I already have everything I already need. Second, my top gift from Christmas 2021 was a high-sided sauté pan. I’m not going to wake up on 25 December and find a shiny bicycle under the tree.
And yet I live in hope. I long for the romance of surprise. The bar has been set high. At Christmas 2012, my husband presented me with one of the most romantic and surprising gifts I have ever received. It wasn’t set with diamonds, and it didn’t come with a shiny bell and basket. It was an old book, long separated from its dustjacket. A book I already owned.
