No snow, no matching knits, just good things worth keeping.
It's 11pm on Christmas Eve, and someone is kneeling on the lounge room floor wrapping presents with the wrong sticky tape, because the good sticky tape has vanished, as it does every year. The prawns are in the fridge. The pav has cracked, but that's what cream is for. Somewhere down the street, someone is still mowing the lawn.
This is Christmas as most of us actually know it. Not the catalogue version, with snow on the windowsill and a family in matching knits. Ours is thongs by the back door, cherries in a bowl on the bench, and the cricket on low in the lounge room, with an uncle asleep in front of it by three.
It's a little chaotic and a lot of fun, and we wouldn't swap it for anything.
So, what makes a good Christmas gift?
Every year around now, we start the hunt. This year, we gave ourselves one rule: would we be thrilled to unwrap it? Not politely pleased. Not "oh, how lovely" while quietly working out the gift receipt. Properly thrilled.
That rule ruled out a lot. Anything that would end up in the op-shop bag by February was gone. So was anything made to be looked at once and forgotten. What was left were the things that get used, loved and kept: the platter that comes out every summer, the throw that ends up on everyone's lap, the print that's moved house with you three times but always manages to look just right.
For the one who hosts Christmas lunch
She's been up since six, there's a ham glaze situation happening, and she has somehow also made the place cards. Give her something for the table that she'll reach for every year: linen napkins that soften with every wash, or a serving platter big enough for the prawns and the mango. She'll think of you every time she pulls it out, which will be often.
For The Hostess With The Mostest Gift Set
For the one who's impossible to buy for
She has everything. Which means another candle probably isn't going to cut it. Look for something she wouldn't necessarily buy herself, a handmade object, a beautiful little sculpture, something with enough character to make her ask, where did you find this?
For the one who's always somewhere else
She has a passport in the top drawer and a list of places she hasn't been yet. Find her something that travels well: a glass tea bottle for long days of exploring, hand cream for the plane, and a little book for the airport lounge (or the dreaming beforehand).
Go Forth Run Towards Your Dreams Book
For the one who's earned a long bath
Possibly everyone, honestly. Bath and body treats from Australian makers, a deck of inspiration cards for a few quiet minutes, and a firm instruction to lock the bathroom door. It's the gift of an uninterrupted hour, which, in December, is priceless.
For you
Because let's be honest, no one else is going to get it quite right. Leave this page open on the family iPad. Or skip the hinting and buy it yourself. We won't tell.
The best gifts aren't the biggest or the shiniest. They're the ones that say, I was paying attention. Those are the gifts that quietly move into someone's home and become part of their story: the bowl on the bench, the throw on the couch, the painting above the hall table that everyone asks about.
So pop the kettle on and have a wander. And if you find the good sticky tape, please let me know.
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