12. The gift of giving (and receiving)
For Mother’s Day one year, my father gave my mother a bath mat. No flowers. No card. Just a mat. She never let him forget it.
Gift giving—and receiving—is fraught with danger. What’s the “right” gift? Will it be appreciated? What if the recipient doesn’t want it? And what do you do when you’re the one receiving something you’d rather not?
Over the years, I’ve given and received my fair share of gifts that missed the mark—and a few that completely blew me away.
Growing up, I was lucky. My parents—well, mostly Mum—chose lovely gifts for my sister and me. There were dolls and teddies, scooters and bikes, sports gear, and on my 18th birthday, a beautiful watch. Another year, a sapphire ring. As we got older, money became the preferred option, letting us choose our own “perfect” presents.
After my divorce, when I stopped wearing my wedding and engagement rings, my parents had my grandmother’s rings made into a piece just for me. I still wear it—a connection to them and to my grandmother, reimagined.
Not every gift story is so touching.
After I was suddenly single again, I dated a man who was a keen cyclist. For Christmas, he gave me… padded bike pants. I had never once expressed interest in cycling. In fact, I was extremely disinterested. Not surprisingly, that relationship didn’t last long. My son, who played rugby at the time, put the pants to better use—wearing them during scrums and lineouts to cushion the lifts.
On the other hand, some of the best gifts I’ve given have been intentionally silly. When my now-husband Martin was also suddenly single, I gave him a copy of Dating for Dummies as a cheeky joke. Little did I know I’d end up marrying him. Each Christmas, we exchange funny gifts with close friends—budgie smugglers, rude socks, bikini-clad garden gnomes, pirate hats. We spend hours searching for the most ridiculous “perfect” gift. Laughter is always the best part.
When my daughter Kirsty turned 21—not long after my divorce—I had my wedding, engagement, and eternity rings remodelled into a single ring for her. For her, it was a beautiful memento; for me, it was a way to transform something I’d outgrown into something meaningful.
I’ve never owned a lot of jewellery, and most of what I wear is inexpensive costume pieces. But in 2010, Martin and I travelled to Paris, where we were starting a French river cruise. Jet-lagged and cranky, I reluctantly agreed to his suggestion of walking to the Eiffel Tower. The crowds were unbearable, the sun was hot, and I was in no mood for sightseeing. Then, in the middle of that chaotic scene, Martin suddenly asked the question.
I said yes.
From his sock—yes, really—and taped to an old credit card, he pulled out a beautiful diamond ring. As he tried to pry it off the tape and put it on my finger, hawkers descended, trying to sell us plastic souvenirs. He shooed them away and we escaped to celebrate somewhere quieter. It was ridiculous, chaotic, perfect—and unforgettable.
When we got married, my parents gave us a generous amount of money. At the time, we didn’t need anything, so we tucked it away. A year later, we took a camping trip through South Australia, up into the Flinders Ranges. Lake Eyre had recently flooded, and with my parents’ gift, we booked a light plane to fly over the glistening, otherworldly waterways. We landed for lunch at the William Creek pub and returned to Marree by late afternoon.
The view from above was breathtaking. A fleeting landscape made visible only by rare rain—seen from a perspective few are lucky enough to witness. It wasn’t something to wear or hold. It was a memory, a moment. A gift.
Looking back, I’m still not sure what the “right” gift is. But I do know this: the best ones don’t always come in a box or a velvet pouch. Sometimes they’re wrapped in laughter, in effort, in memory—or in something utterly unexpected.
And if a gift happens to miss the mark? Well, at least it makes for a good story.
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