It's that time of year again...

Lynne Patrick

… the time of year when people buy gifts for each other to celebrate whatever it is we celebrate to make midwinter bearable. In my case it’s Christmas. (Happy Chanukhah, or Diwali, or whatever makes it happen for you.) So in an hour or so, when other half arrives back with the car we share, I’ll be off on a mercifully rare shopping expedition. Merciful because I’m not a natural shopper; I prefer to blitz the supermarket every six or seven weeks rather than pick at it every week, and I don’t regard going out to spend disposable income on things I don’t really need as a hobby. You certainly won’t find me in the front of the queue for the Harrods sale. My approach is kind of accidental; daughter decides she needs to refresh her wardrobe, so I go along for the opportunity to spend time with her and just happen to spot the perfect sweater along the way.

But Christmas gift shopping is different. Once the chocolate-and-toiletries stocking fillers are sorted, it’s an(other) excuse to spend an hour in a bookshop.

Because my friends and raletions wouldn’t be my friends and raletions if they didn’t appreciate those handy-sized rectangular parcels as much as I do. And if you don’t get the Winnie the Pooh reference there, you’re clearly no friend of raletion of mine!

So – what handy-sized rectangular parcels will be under our tree, and for whom?

I’m not on gift-exchanging terms with many people; nieces and nephews are grown and flown, brother, sister and I came to no-gift arrangement many years ago, friends agreed almost as long ago that we all have far too much stuff, so we give the money to a deserving cause instead.

Which leaves husband, daughter and mother.

Husband is impossible to buy gifts for, unless the gift is a book or chocolate. So that’s what we give; what we would have spent on something more substantial goes into next year’s holiday fund instead. His to-read shelves are beginning to groan, since he cherry-picks from books I review and he’s recently had a birthday, but he’s also catching up on Jeffery Deaver and Michael Connelly, so that’s easy. I’m not wild about either of them, but it’s surprising how their books draw me in...

Daughter is... less easy. She has groaning to-read shelves as well; in fact, all she wanted for her slightly less recent birthday was some new bookshelves, and her dad’s help assembling them. She’s fond of golden age crime fiction, but she’s read most of what’s in print, so I need to dip into the cosier end of the genre. Trouble is, she lives 150 miles away, volunteers in a charity bookshop and is regarded as their crime fiction expert, so she gets first dibs at the donations – which means I never know what she’s read. But I have a lot of fun trying to remember.

Mother isn’t a crime fiction fan at all. The gore and violence doesn’t appeal, she doesn’t like bad language even when it’s entirely appropriate; mostly, which is a great pity, she’s been brainwashed by those shortsighted would-be critics who dismiss genre fiction as a poor relation of ‘real’ literature. I expect I’ll find something suitable, though I doubt it will be something I’d read myself.

On which subject... I’d say the chances of coming out of that bookshop without a little something that won’t be going in anyone else’s Christmas stocking are... let’s say remote bordering on nil.

Well, it is the season of goodwill and being kind to people.

Comments

[Jeff Cohen]

Well, there goes that whole "surprise" element of gift-giving, eh, Lynne?

[Lynne Patrick]

I think I'll get away with it, Jeff. Husband and mother wouldn't have a clue how to find the blog, and daughter and I understand each other! And are there any other kinds of stocking filler than chocolate and toiletries?

[Meriel Patrick]

You always get tea in your stocking!