Bernard O'Shea: The best - and worst - Christmas present I ever gave my wife

The present of me doing something for the rest of my life that my wife knows I hate doing. Surely that's what love, and Christmas, is really all about, writes Bernard O'Shea.

Bernard O'Shea: "I used to do all my Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. I know some people are probably getting sweaty palms right now just thinking about that endeavour, but it's surprisingly quick and easy. Nothing like a deadline to make your decisions streamlined"

My wife has told me precisely what present to get her for the last five Christmases, and I write it down and order it online. I used to do all my Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. 

I know some people are probably getting sweaty palms right now just thinking about that endeavour, but it's surprisingly quick and easy. Nothing like a deadline to make your decisions streamlined.

However, five Christmases ago, this personal tradition came a cropper. I wanted to buy Lorna a present that said, 'I love you; I can't thank you enough for our children and for all the sacrifices you make.' So I ran into a jewellery shop in a large south county Dublin shopping centre on Christmas Eve and bought her earrings, a bracelet, and a necklace.

Along with all the other people in the queue, I smugly purchased a gift that I have been brainwashed into thinking is a girl's best friend over the years. I'm sure that's probably an endless supply of wine and an actually helpful partner. Happy with my last-minute purchase, I texted her. "Got your gift."

The reply came back as I was walking to my car. "Thanks – as long as it's not jewellery. You know I can't wear it, and you didn't have to get me anything." At that moment, I realised that because I'd bought her jewellery, effectively, I hadn't got her anything.

I ran into Argos. 'Sorry, we're shut,' said the drained teenage member of staff, who looked like he'd just been through a hostage negotiation. I ran, and I mean I sprinted, to a large department store that basically has everything. 

'Sorry, son, we're closed,' said a security guard. I pelted around the vast, squeaky marble floors, all four levels of them, to try and find any shop that was open to getting my wife a present, but no joy.

Being from the country, you never think that cities are made up of villages. Because the urban landscape seems so vast, you never believe that the local spirit exists in precisely the same way as it does in the rural hinterland. But driving home through all the swallowed-up villages, I saw people outside their local churches. 

Each little group reminded me that it doesn't matter where you're from because... hold that thought. In fact, forget that nostalgic drivel, there was a shop open! A small hardware store was open, selling solid fuel and big tinfoil baking trays for turkeys.

I walked in, and it was primarily full of customers buying bales of briquettes and bags of coal. I walked along its two tiny dusty aisles, looking at silicon piping, grout, washers and duct tape. I began to realise this was a useless Wavin-pipe dream.

But then, lo and behold, there at the back of the shop in a beautiful yellow plastic colour, was the most gorgeous apparition I'd ever seen. An ash vacuum cleaner. I knelt before it. I gave thanks to it. For here lay the true saviour of Christmas.

Let me explain. My wife loves lighting the fire, especially at Christmas. She cosies up with a book in her pyjamas or tries to watch "Escape to The Chateau" while the kid's protest "THIS IS BORING" and lobby relentlessly for something on Netflix.

However, she, like myself, hates cleaning out the fire the next day. We definitely had two, possibly three, conversations that year about me getting an ash hoover to make this dusty chore bearable. As an efficient, no baloney person, I reckoned that she would appreciate a practical gift. I reckoned.

When I went to buy it, the man behind the counter told me that it was a display model and that he could order me a new one. I told him: 'I don't care if it displays psychotic tendencies, I'll take it." Then for the first time in human history, I asked a man on Christmas Eve if he could gift-wrap an ash vacuum cleaner for me. He couldn't.

The next morning we watched the magical moment of toddlers ripping apart wrapping paper like ravenous hyenas. Lorna handed me my gift. She'd got me precisely what I asked for, two replacement cylinders for my SodaStream and a tiny Swiss penknife that had scissors and a nail file.

When everybody had finished opening their gifts, the only thing left was the monolith I'd left in the kitchen. "Mammy, open your present!" the kids screamed.

She started to pull out the fake yellow straw and poly board that protected it until she finally realised what it was. She turned to me and whispered, so lovingly, 'You got me a f**king vacuum cleaner?'

I tried to argue that it was exactly what she wanted. 'It's always nice to get something you'll use," to which she replied, "I told you to get me a new hairdryer, and I couldn't have been clearer."

I ran out to the car and got the jewellery. When I came back in, I declared, 'Only messing, here's your real present.'

She opened it and said, 'You know I don't wear jewellery, Bernard. Look, it's okay, I didn't want anything.'

Then, during the afternoon, I had a brainwave. I lit the fire. Eventually, we all sat down at it. We played board games with the kids. Basically, trying to stop them from shoving small plastic pieces up their noses. 

Later on that night, the kids got into their new pyjamas. I could see that Lorna was happy. More important, I could see what she was trying to do. She was recreating those special memories for our kids that she'd had as a child.

When we went to bed, my wife eventually broke the silence. She looked me in the eye and said, "You can clean out the fire in the morning, Bernard, and you can use your new vacuum cleaner." Maybe I did get her the present she wanted after all. 

The present of me doing something for the rest of my life that she knows I hate doing. Surely that's what love, and Christmas, is really all about.