Remember that time: I was terrible at giving gifts?

Nailed it!

Giving good gifts is a skill. A skill that must be learned. Possibly taught. And definitely practised under supervision until you’ve earned your gifting licence.

Growing up, we leaned hard on the phrase “it’s the thought that counts.” Which I now suspect we collectively misunderstood as praise. As in: you were technically thinking of me when you bought this, so you must care about me. When really, it’s just a polite way of acknowledging a crime against humanity.

Gift-giving did not come naturally to me.

My older sister, in particular, was impossible to buy for. I could tell by the expression on her face every time she opened one of my presents that I’d missed the mark – not by inches, but by entire solar systems. We’re very different people with very different styles, and her style was something I didn’t fully understand, which made buying her something she’d actually like feel near impossible.

She loved hippy, alternative stores. Think dragons. Tarot cards. Incense. Mystical energy. Vibes. I wasn’t into that world at all, but I figured if I went to her favourite hippy shop, I couldn’t possibly go wrong.

Reader, I went wrong.

The moment I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed. Nothing made sense. Nothing spoke to me. And because none of it spoke to me, I panicked.

Panicked logic is an oxymoron. They don’t go together like horse and carriage. The horse is bucking wildly, the carriage is tipping, and someone is definitely going to hospital.

Here was my reasoning:

If we are polar opposites… and I really dislike something… then she’s going to love it.

Flawless. Bulletproof.

So I scoured the shop for the ugliest item within my price range and found it: an ugly wizard figurine. He was gnarled. Ancient. Dressed in robes straight out of a low-budget fantasy novel. He had no purpose beyond being ornamental. I hated him with a passion that surprised even me.

Which meant – obviously – she would adore him.

I was thrilled. I’d cracked the code. Look at me go.

I took him home, wrapped him carefully, slid him under the tree, and sat back with a smug little smile reserved only for people who are about to learn a lesson.

Christmas morning arrived. Gifts were opened. I watched closely as she tore off the festive paper and pulled out the wizard.

She stopped.
Paused.
Looked at it.
Then looked at me.
Then looked at it again.

And actually said aloud,
“What the fuck is that?”

She hated it. I think she may have hated it more than I hated it – and that is saying something.

It was in that moment that I realised my logic was deeply, profoundly flawed.

It was so horrible it wasn’t even something you could regift or sell on Gumtree. To this day, I still don’t know what happened to it. The bin, probably.

The following year, I bought her unicorn tarot cards – which she already owned.

Growth. Of a kind.

So why am I telling you this cautionary tale?

Because if you miss the mark this year, you can pat yourself on the back and take comfort in knowing you almost certainly haven’t bought the worst gift ever.

And if someone hands you a present that makes you wonder whether they know you at all, take solace in this: they probably thought long and hard about it. They just haven’t been taught the ancient and mysterious art of good gift giving.

Christmas, after all, is a time for love and compassion.

Even towards the ugliest of wizards –
the ones someone stared at in a shop and thought, nailed it.