The wedding toilet brush and the infamous Mucha mirror – my guide to buying presents

I had not previously been aware of the concept of a wedding list and, even when its existence was pointed out to me, it proved to be of limited assistance. By the time I got around to visiting the shop which housed the compendium of selected gifts – this was before the internet changed shopping habits - the vast majority of items which suited my meagre student budget had already been purchased.

All that was left were several electrical devices priced well beyond my fiscal capacity and the very cheapest item...which was a toilet brush.

I hesitated over making a decision and tried to reason it through in my mind. On one hand, the bathroom item was on the list so the soon-to-be married couple must have wanted it (or at the very least acknowledged its usefulness); but on the other, it was a toilet brush. On the plus side, it was of quite a fancy and ornate design; on the negative side, it was still a toilet brush.

I bought the toilet brush. There was nothing else I could afford, and I consoled myself that at least nobody else at the wedding would be aware that I had bought such an inferior gift.

And then I was introduced to another social first. A couple of nights before the wedding a number of the guests were invited to the home of the bride’s parents. I ironed my one good shirt and took a taxi to the address. I was admitted to the lavish house where one of the first things I noticed was an array of household items on display in the dining room.

I was somewhat confused. In the years since I have learnt this is part of a rather antiquated tradition known as the ‘show of presents’. My good shirt started to become damp with sweat as I noticed that the gifts were all labelled.

Among the Aladdin’s cave of treasures there were fancy towels and bedding, expensive looking candlesticks and picture frames, crystal glasses and fine crockery, a kettle, toaster, microwave, an electric carving knife and much more. And there, at the corner of the dining room table, rested a puny and pathetic looking toilet brush. On the top of it there was a small white sticker which simply read ‘JONNY’.

Over the passing years it could be argued that I have accumulated some wisdom, although I have never quite lost that sense of discomfort and occasional dread when trying to select presents.

I am fortunate in that I have a small circle of people for whom I feel obliged to purchase gifts. One wife, one son, and less frequently, for extended family. But even with this limited number, it sometimes does feel as if I’m on a constantly turning circle with the next occasion when I have to go present shopping ever approaching. There are Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day. Plus, the workload is doubled in that I have to buy all the gifts for my son to give to his mum. Sometimes I do wonder how people who come from larger families ever manage to get anything else done amid all the present buying.

It was my wife’s birthday last week. We have been together for nearly 20 years. Whatever little bit of gift-selecting creative talent I ever possessed dried up years ago. Over the years I have bought (or occasionally made) just about everything that remotely falls within the radius (and sometimes outside) of a sensible gift. The truth is, there are only so many smelly candles one can buy.

I was in my usual panic over what to get. I have recently been dipping my toe into the murky pool of online shopping and was scanning potential presents. I found what seemed to be a pretty looking music box which played You Are My Sunshine. At least it was a bit different I told myself before clicking the purchase button.

My first inclination that I had made an error came when the small package dropped through my letter box. When viewing it online, I had imagined the music box to be about the size of a laptop; it turned out to be the size of a matchbox. The personalised message that I had ordered to be written on it was too small to read without a magnifying glass.

In the early days of our courtship I worried even more about buying the perfect gift. On one birthday I bought a mirror inspired by a design created by the Czech painter Alphonse Mucha. My wife did her best to appear grateful and enthusiastic although her eyes gave away that she had never seen anything as hideous in her life.

As I write this, I find myself wondering do we still have that Mucha mirror? A quick inspection reveals it hidden in the corner of our conservatory. I have not noticed it in many years. I take some time to look at it properly and come to the conclusion that my wife was right. It is bloody ghastly.

In the end I console myself with the fact that I’m left chuffed when anyone buys me a present, whatever it is. I hope it’s the same for others. True to the old cliché, it’s the thought that counts, even if it is not always entirely clear what I am thinking at the time.