Phew. Finished wrapping my Christmas presents. All those weeks of agonising and having stern words with myself about being  more decisive, and blisters on my feet from traipsing around malls, and blisters on my fingers from cheese-wire carrier bag handles and exploring virtual retail opportunities long into the lonely nights with only the Pogues and Cliff and Aled for company….. IS THIS ALL I  HAVE TO SHOW FOR IT? Are these piles (“piles” is an overstatement: they are more “molehill” than “mountain”) of scrumpled packages an adequate representation of all that cheerful-but physically and mentally not insignificant- effort.

It reminds me of my writing exertions: months  of   planning  Blues,  followed by hours of scribbling  in notebooks and sweaty research sessions, and  summer reading about the art of fiction, and disciplining myself to actually write something down in some kind of order, then checking and re-checking my ideas list,then wondering whether to go with my original instincts-  all  evaporating into a stack (“stack” may also be a slight exaggeration) of paragraphs which I hope amount to something people won’t want to take back on Boxing Day.

It’s supposed to be the thought that counts. But it’s a bonus when you know you’ve nailed it,  hitting upon a present that brings a genuine smile to the recipient’s face, even if they didn’t realise it was just what they’d always wanted.