When I was a small boy, socks were the inverse of a Platonically ideal present – the last resort of a tragically unimaginative relative, correctly derided in the Beano as the worst possible gift. Now that I’m a 45-year-old dad, though, I’ve done a 180 – few things make me happier on Christmas morning than the tell-tale crinkle of a floppy, foot-shaped gift. Maybe this is what being a grownup really means.
I think it’s because, as you age, you tend to invest in fewer luxuries for yourself. Fine, I’m not above a subscription box of IPAs or some nice fineliners, but when it comes to the essentials of life, I buy … the basics. A set of AirPods? You can get a set of Bluetooth headphones for less than £20. Designer glasses? Not when I look so stylish in my nerd-frames. A six-pack of white athletic socks? Yes, please — throw in a pack of plain T-shirts while you’re at it.
For men like me, the best gifts are those we would never buy for ourselves. We’ve got books, Blu-rays and graphic novels covered – you will never work out what we actually want and it’s a waste of time to try. If you really care, get us a modest upgrade of a bargain-basement product you’ve spotted us using: we will be thoroughly grateful and use it until it wears out. Corkscrews, pepper grinders, pencil sharpeners – these are the things we need, not drones and whisky decanters. My mum bought me a really nice potato masher two decades ago and I still think of her every time I use it, even though she is no longer with us. Truly, the greatest gift of all.
