IT'S about this time of the year that my son rings me up and tells me not to buy him a Christmas present. 'We go through this at the beginning of every December', I say. 'You say not to buy you a present, I say then in that case you don't need to buy me one and then you buy me one and I feel guilty because I know you have bought me one because your sisters tell me and then I go out and buy you something entirely unsuitable because I'm in a hurry.' I do usually take a breath in this conversation, but you get the drift. We then have the 'I really mean it this year' from my son, but I'm not sure he really means it. He'll already have had the same conversation with his sisters, both of whom will have said that he's too late because they've already bought him something. And so it goes on. The only person we've never had this conversation with is my ex. Now there's a man who, if you tell him not to buy you something, takes you at your word. It isn't that my son is mean, it's that Christmas present buying, and receiving, fills him with a terrible sense of dread. The dread is that one of us will buy him an item of clothing he'll have to wear when he sees us. I can terrorise him just by mentioning that I've seen a nice shirt which I think would suit him fine, because it won't. There is no item of clothing I could buy which he'd like. I once dragged him round the shops in desperation and practically forced him to buy a leather jacket. 'Do you like it, yes or no?' I snapped. 'Fine, we'll have it'. About 500 yards down the road I was congratulating myself on having solved Christmas for once when he said the only problem was that it was too small. He said he didn't like to upset me. Then why was he upsetting me now? He didn't know. Back to the shop we went, where the assistant initially pretended not to recognise us even through we'd left five minutes ago. He mumbled something about not replacing items, but one look on my face changed his mind and we got another jacket in the right size. Now I buy him the dreaded useful presents like towels, a George Foreman grill and a steamer because he once lectured me on the goodness of steamed vegetables. I don't suppose he uses any of these but at least he doesn't have to wear them and pretend. Oddly enough, his choices are usually excellent, but arriving at them takes a long time. He's always been good at buying for his nephews and nieces, because he keeps in touch with up-to- date musical tastes so is unlikely to buy them CDs of Lulu's latest hits because he knows which dreadful wailing group is 'in' at the moment. He's good at toys too. The kids have always loved his presents, even though adults are not always so impressed. I merely have to mention the 'make your own rockets' kit for an eight-year-old! It's the women in his family who cause the most problems. He steers very clear of make-up or scent, having once bought me a bottle of 'Channel' Number Five from a market stall when he was about 15 and has never lived it down. Like most men, he grasps on to hobbies as a last resort, and over the years I've had some very nice items for gardening and cooking. But we did have the interval of the teapots. These began with a large box one Christmas morning marked 'fragile' and inside was a large teapot shaped like a rabbit. I'm never at my best first thing on Christmas morning, so being faced by sizeable ginger rabbit sitting on a tuft of grass with a spout coming out of its middle left me speechless. To show my appreciation I made a pot of tea, which dribbled all down the creature's paws onto the floor. Everybody else admired it, especially those with a vicious hangover and a sense of humour. My thanks must have been effusive enough to convince the rest of the family that I was all set to become a collector of funny teapots because for the next few years I got the familiar boxes aplenty. It's amazing how many shapes you can get, and how many different places manufacturers can find to place the spout. They all had one thing in common, they all dribbled. I eventually managed to convince the family that I had enough funny teapots to last a lifetime. I think the shriek of 'if anyone else buys me a b***** teapot I'll break it over their head' was enough to let them know. I still had the pots to contend with, which took up a lot of room and needed constant dusting, until I found a dear lady who lives near Helston and who has a teapot tree. This is an old dead willow in her front garden and one day, and I know how she feels, she had the idea of hanging the funny teapots people had given her for birthdays and Christmas on it. The idea caught on and now there are dozens. People go out of their way to bring pots, and I've been among them. The next time I'm passing she'll get the rest. I've convinced myself that I'm not actually throwing away presents bought so lovingly by a family member, but giving them to a worthy outdoor museum of not necessarily welcome gifts. I haven't yet donated the rabbit, but one day soon he'll be swinging in the gentle breeze just a few miles from the Lizard. My son isn't the only one who has difficulties. Most men aren't good at buying presents. I spotted an auction on eBay this week for a pink handbag being sold by a man who sadly confessed it was last year's gift to his wife but she hated it. 'It shows how bad I am at presents, I thought she'd love it but she never even opened it,' he wailed. You'll see the poor creatures over the next few weeks, hovering around uncertainly in big stores. At any other time of the year a male spotted lurking in the lingerie department of a store fingering the camiknickers or basques would become the focus of the security staffs' attention. Not at Christmas. Now they're walking wallets. There they are, desperately hoping they found the right size on their wives or girlfriends' underwear and are not going to order the batch number by mistake. When asked by an assistant about sizes they make little cupping movements with their hands and then realise that probably isn't the right thing to do. Down in the cosmetic departments a lone male shopper is manna from heaven, a commission in the making. An innocent abroad who may be persuaded to buy a large-sized gift pack of last year's favourite scent named after some film star who thinks he or she is going to make a few extra bucks flogging a smell with their name on it. Men are indeed greenhorns when it comes to scent. They can't remember names of their beloved's favourite, only that 'it's a French one', which narrows it down to about 150. They are amazed at the cost and at the size of the bottles they will be getting for their money. They can easily be persuaded by an assistant to buy the largest size of neat scent rather than an eau de toilette which is basically watered down and much cheaper. If they manage to get away from the scent counters with their credit cards intact, they will be pounced on by the make-up ladies, who are always terribly helpful to the lone man, however old he is, whereas most of us women get the snake-eyed look which is saying: 'I wouldn't bother dear'. The poor man will be surrounded by a pack of wolves trying to pull him towards their own brands, full of bewildering things but nicely gift-wrapped. My advice: Never buy your beloved any cosmetics which contain miracle anti-wrinkle preparations. Even if she needs them. It won't go down all that well. Further advice to men: Women don't appreciate useful gifts such as aprons, new irons or cookery books unless they have specifically mentioned them. Cookery books should be kept to ones by their favourite TV cooks otherwise they may be taken as a hint that their cooking prowess is lacking. In jewellery, real and tiny rather than fake and big is the best bet, although big and real would be better. Most women would rather you buy clothing in a size too small rather than too large, but keep the receipt. Finally, try never to buy funny teapots for your mother unless you have firm written evidence that she is intending to collect them.
