Tric Kearney: Oh dear, this one has no tag on it. Who’s it for Mum?” says the present master, holding up a gift a child might have wrapped

TICK, tick. Surely I’m not the only one who can hear that blasted clock ticking louder by the day as we get closer to Christmas? Only four more sleeps. Yes, FOUR! Even writing that is sending my blood pressure soaring. No, I’m not “all set for Christmas” as so many have asked me since the first of December, in fact, I’m not even nearly ready.

I need to remember it always works out in the end. I think Christmas would be easier if I possessed the ‘love shopping’ gene, but unfortunately, I suspect I skipped that queue and the ‘imaginative and thoughtful present’ queue. This makes the distribution of gifts Christmas morning a nightmare, as I sit watching everyone unwrap my gifts like someone awaiting their exam results, hoping it’s not a fail.

In our house, we open our presents after we come home from the Christmas Day swim. Yes, come rain, frost, snow, or sunshine, we go to our local beach to gather in memory of Daniel Crowley, a fabulous young boy. Such was his popularity and charm that over 300 join us with all money going to the Mercy Hospital children and teens. Of course, someone must be there to hand out the soup and hot drinks afterwards so I don’t actually go into the water. I’m very unselfish like that.

On our return home, and after numerous less-than-festive rows over who booked the first showers, we gather to distribute the presents from under the tree. They are stockpiled there a few days in advance although yer man and myself are usually last to place ours.

Unfortunately, when I said I wasn’t in the queue when they were handing out shopping genes, I can also tell you I was nowhere near the ‘excellent at wrapping’ queue. As the presents get handed out, wrapped perfectly, with ribbons and bows everyone oohs and ahhs. Until that is when a less than beautifully wrapped gift appears.

“Oh dear, this one has no tag on it. Who’s it for Mum?” says the present master, holding up a gift a child might have wrapped, which may also have a slight tear in it.

“How do you know it’s from me,” I ask, only to be met with laughter.

Each year, as I feel the fear over whether my gifts hit the right note, I’m reminded of an epic Christmas present fail an Australian friend told me about.

She was nine years old, and it was her first Christmas after her parents had separated. She and her sister had spent the morning with their mother and were off to their grandmother’s for the afternoon to be with their dad.

My friend was beyond excited as her father had told her she’d have a fantastic Christmas and his present would blow her mind. Other clues had been ‘you’d never believe I could get you this’, and ‘your friends will be so jealous’.

So, she put two and two together and decided, without doubt, she was getting a pony.

Her poor mother was heartbroken as she skipped off with hardly a backward glance. As they drove nearer her grandmother’s, she scoured the fields for any sign of her pony. Maybe it was around the back? Arriving into the house she couldn’t wait and nearly burst when her dad handed her a large box. A bridle, she thought. Quickly she tore it open and there it was… a calculator.

In her father’s defence, 40 years ago a calculator was something a child could never imagine owning. However, it was no pony.

Each year, as I wait to see if my gifts are well received, I take comfort in the fact that at least no one expects a pony. And of course, I have a receipt. At least I should have one… somewhere.