IT'S the height of the holiday season and all those people who have travelled far and wide, or even near and narrow, will no doubt be bringing back all kinds of lovely little gifts for their nearest and dearest.

Oh yeah, I hear you say, glancing grimly at the dusty flamenco dancer on the landing windowsill.

Holiday souvenirs and holiday gifts are often a big surprise, but not always a welcome one. Because they are among some of the naffest items you are ever likely to receive and sadly you quite often have to display them in a place of honour because the person who for some unearthly reason thought you would treasure a life-sized baby warthog tastefully executed in endangered species wood with plastic additions is likely to pop round at any time.

I was reminded of holiday gifts by two things this week.

Firstly, my elder daughter suffered a nasty little head injury whilst staying with me recently.

I had kindly handed over my bedroom to her and her husband and early in the morning she sat up in bed, heard a wasp buzzing around the window and decided to open it. Unfortunately she failed to notice that in the very corner of the windowledge behind the curtains was a white pottery ornament in the shape of dozens of stacked garlic bulbs and as she pulled the window towards her the ornament toppled onto her head.

The situation wasn't helped next morning by me asking when she pointed out a garlic shaped dent on her head whether the ornament was intact, but I am fond of this souvenir of a long ago Spanish trip.

I brought it back on the plane clutched between my knees in the days before airline staff made you put anything weighing heavier than a bag of feathers in the lockers. I suppose any air turbulence on the way home and more than one passenger would have suffered a garlic indentation on their heads, but I got it home safely and it's moved with me several times.

Quite a lot of people admire it, if the words 'what the hell's that supposed to be' are anything to go by.

The other reminder of holiday gifts came from a colleague who has brought in an amazingly ugly seashell clock given to her family by a relative who had bought it on holiday. I'd better not go into too much detail because we don't want to upset anyone and as people say 'it's the thought that counts' although what sort of thought was going on in the gift-buyer's head when they handed over hard cash for it I probably don't want to know.

We have it in the office at the moment and every time you think that it couldn't possibly be as bad as you thought it was you go and have another look at it and it is.

I particularly like the wonky writing in what looks like blood red icing which spells out the name of the country it came from and is set off centre above the delicately wrought seashell pictures and surrounding rims of winkles.

Tragically, quite a lot of marine molluscs gave up their lives for this item, proving yet again that art can't always imitate nature.

The worst thing about this kind of gift is that someone bought it. Someone thought about you, or whoever, and decided that the salt and pepper shakers hollowed out of whale's teeth or hopefully imitation whale's teeth, set on a bed of polystyrene wavelets, was something you would really want to use and display. It makes you look around and wonder what it is about your house that could have given them that idea.

When I first visited Spain the big craze was not only for flamenco dancers in all shapes and sizes (including the best of all, the flamenco dancer toilet roll cover) but the straw donkey.

There must have been huge factories producing these things, with lines of women sewing on little bridles and saddles and no doubt laughing all the way to the banco. Holidaymakers in their droves took home this souvenir, it was proof you'd had a holiday on the Costas. The best one was the giant sized donkey, usually bought by someone who had been overindulging on the sangria and giant sized Spanish brandies and stumbled past a shop near the bar on his way back to the hotel. You saw these men at the airport, self consciously struggling with a donkey the size of a Shetland pony, hoping the wife wouldn't notice if they left it in the gents.

The funny thing about all these donkeys was that no matter where you bought them they would never stand up properly, but lurched drunkenly to one side or fell right over.

As far as I am concerned the top of the ghastly gift league has to be Lourdes. We once stayed in the town because our au pair's family lived there. Where we were was just like any small French town , with a lovely daily market, super bakeries and plenty of small cafes and bistros. Just half a mile away however it was like Blackpool crossed with the Vatican.

Any item you cared to mention and a lot you would never have thought of was in the shape of poor St Bernadette with a lot of baby Jesuses and the Virgin Mary thrown in for good measure. Now I don't want to offend anyone's religious beliefs but I can't imagine that they really need a depiction of St Bernadette experiencing a holy vision in the grotto inside a plastic globe of the kind that normally contains Santa Claus and a snowstorm.

There are, of course, some gifts which are so awful that they are collectable and cause giggles for years to come.

But take care that you remember who bought them and don't bring out the musical Eiffel Tower with an inset barometer or the illuminated lavatory brush and holder which plays Handel's Water Music when picked up unless you are very sure the gift giver isn't present.

There's nothing so silent as a silence produced by the inappropriate production of a holiday souvenir from hell if the giver is sitting on your sofa.