The Great Christmas Present Panic

Or How I Accidentally Bought My  Nan a Nose  Hair Trimmer Again

Ah, Christmas. That magical time of year when we all lose our minds and start spending money we don’t have on people we don’t like. Honestly, it’s the only time of year when wrapping up soap and a small bit of ribbon can make you look generous. And don’t even get me started on the glitter. You find it everywhere until April. I once found a bit in my bra. I still don’t know how.

Now, let’s talk about Christmas presents, because they are, without question, the most stressful form of love ever invented. The entire system is based on guilt and guesswork. You start out in October with noble intentions: “This year,” you say to yourself, “I’ll be thoughtful. I’ll get everyone something personal and meaningful.”

Cut to December 23rd, and you’re in the petrol station buying a box of Maltesers and a car air freshener shaped like a pine tree, thinking, ‘Mum likes the outdoors.’

Every year I swear I’ll be organised. I make lists. Colour-coded lists. I even make sub-lists for my lists. And then I lose them. Every. Single. Time. 

The only thing I never lose is the vague feeling of panic that starts bubbling around the 10th of December and reaches full-scale hysteria by the 20th.

And then there’s the people who are impossible to buy for. You know the ones. The Minimalists.

“Oh, I don’t need anything,” they say, serenely sipping their oat milk latte, surrounded by beige furniture and plants with Latin names.

Well, you’re getting something, Carol, because if I have to buy Great Uncle Phil a novelty mug that says ‘Beer: It’s Not Just for Breakfast’, then you’re not escaping this madness scot-free.

And what about kids? Once upon a time, you could give them a colouring book and a bar of chocolate, and they’d be thrilled. Now they want gadgets that cost more than my car. “A VR headset please, Auntie Grace”! I was thinking more of a selection box!

Of course, you’ve also got the Secret Santa minefield. Nothing says “forced festive bonding” quite like pretending to love the stress ball shaped like a unicorn someone bought for £4.99 from the discount aisle. And you can always tell who drew your name. It’s the same person who’s spent the last year avoiding eye contact in the staff kitchen.

Last year, I got a “Grow Your Own Boyfriend” kit. Which, to be fair, was only slightly less disappointing than my last real one.

Now, I try to be thoughtful. I really do. But sometimes, even with the best intentions, it all goes wrong. Like the time I bought my nan what I thought was a lovely new electric toothbrush. Turns out it was a nose hair trimmer. She loved it, mind you. Said it “tickled in the most unexpected places.” We never spoke of it again.

And let’s not forget the wrapping. Wrapping presents is an extreme sport. You start with good intentions,matching paper, coordinating ribbon, perhaps even a sprig of holly. By the third present, you’re out of Sellotape, your scissors have disappeared into another dimension, and you’re sealing the whole thing shut with sheer willpower and a prayer.

My personal wrapping technique can best be described as “panicked burrito.” If it’s covered, it counts. One year, I wrapped a present so badly my partner thought it was an abstract art project. The cat had actually chewed one corner, but it added character, I think.

Then there’s the unwrapping. You watch the recipient like a hawk, desperate for signs of joy. “Ohhh… a… scarf!” they say, smiling the kind of smile that says, ‘I already have 17 scarves and hate this colour.’

Meanwhile, you’re trying to remember where you put the gift receipt while also pretending not to be offended.

Still, despite the chaos, the stress, and the fact that I’ll be paying off the credit card until next summer, I do love it. Because underneath the glitter, the bad wrapping, and the panic-buying, it’s really about showing the people you love that you care,preferably with something that doesn’t require AA batteries.

So yes, I’ll probably still be panic-shopping in Tesco at midnight on Christmas Eve, clutching the aforementioned selection box and whispering, “It’ll do.” I’ll wrap things badly, I’ll give the wrong presents to the wrong people, and I’ll definitely cry when someone gives me socks.

But come Christmas morning, when everyone’s together, tearing paper and laughing, even the worst gift feels perfect. Because at the end of the day, that’s what Christmas is all about: love, laughter, and the faint scent of turkey mixed with Lynx Africa.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just remembered I still haven’t bought a present for the dog. Again.

By Grace Aisling