I remember unwrapping the present under the tree with my parents, hoping for a particular book, but recieving instead something puzzling and hurtful. They are staring at my smiling, and Mum sees my puzzled expression and the way my face is contorting, and is explaining why she thinks I might like it. It's titled something like 'The Vogue Book of Beauty' and it is full of woman putting make up on faces that did not look like mine. Outside, in the hot Australian sunshine, the cockatoos croaked in response to my confusion. Why would I want to learn how to plaster make up on my face? Were they saying I was ugly? What was the point? Whilst the next year was a return to the beautiful literature that was more aligned with our family tradition, that one off the mark gift was enough to throw me entirely.

Today, Kris Kringle tradition in my family involves a random pairing of relatives and a promise of a gift to a nominal amount, increasing of course over the years with inflation. Each year, the whispers: do you know what your mother wants for Christmas? Any ideas for (insert name here)? It's a difficult process, because we all have what we need, and none of us quite believe in gifting simply for the sake of it yet we still do it. Why we insist on this tradition is beyond me, yet everyone persists for fear of being seen as a grinch heart pariah, a miserly Scrooge, a griping troll refusing to part with his riches at the expense of his humanity, and perhaps worse.

In the end, it's book vouchers, boutique beer, and from one relative, plastic things that masquerade as useful but are discarded many years later as useless, not one but two 12V oscillating fans that ineffectively shift hot air, an a pair of dummy security cameras. At work, I bowed at years ago, refusing to be added to the list as I baulked at the towers of discarded foil paper and dates bought at Aldi, cheap wine, and unwanted cookery books. Ungrateful, perhaps, but I staunchly persist in non participation, risking been seen as a loony for voicing concern for the environment coupled with a squeamishness for consumerism in it's most base form. The three kings of the orient bringing frankincense, myrrh and whatever the third thing was would perhaps had crowed less about the gifts for the newborn king had they known they would become a semi forgotton reason for a gift giving tradition that is the hallmark of Christ's birthday.

The amount of trash Christmas produces in this country is staggering. One site says that five million tonnes of food go into landfill, and 150,000 kilometers of wrapping paper are discarded for gifts. I want to scream at the horror of it all, and I do in my abject fantasies, tearing plastic toys out the hands of small children and whacking people with frozen turkeys at the supermarket.

Perhaps it is that along with the Vogue Book of Beauty, my parents also gave me an invisible gift: a vehement hatred of the whole awkward, disquieting ritual.

Gift giving became a terrible chore. What if I handed over the recipient an equally hurtful gift, and they pretended to like it? What if I spent money on something that would be wasted in a closet for years until we had all forgotton about it, and it ended up landfill? I thought of the cellulite cream my sister had bought my mother, and the pink care bear vase I had been given by a friend, both gifts that suggested they hadn't thought enough. What if I didn't think enough? The whole charade seemed forced.

To buy someone a gift became a fraught, frazzled activity, and recieving a gift emotionally taxing. In the first year of us being together, my husband had gotten me a pure white scarf that wasn't something I normally wore, but I loved it. He always thought I was pretending to save his feelings. How confusing this was. Ten years later, the stained and frayed scarf ended up going to a charity shop and I felt sadness and relief.

I became to believe that gifts should be given freely and spontaneously, without a day to demand that this ritual be upheld at all costs or that one should respond in a particular way. Love was not being forced to buy a gift, but randomly giving someone flowers, or a book 'because I was at the shops and I thought you'd like this one'. Realy gifts were small, and thoughtful: a pair of mushroom socks that arrive in the post because my sister in law knows how much I love mushrooms, two frozen containers of lentil soup from my mother because she knows I cannot stand to cook, a box of ripe mangoes from my son because they were cheap at the market.

A week before Christmas, I am still in a state of quiet desperation thinking of the perfect Kris Kringle gift for my aunt that will adhere to my own values whilst being a gift of love. We will drive down to the coast, St Nick bobbing on the dash, to share a feast with the people I love and I will dread the after dinner exchange, faking light heartedness and worrying I will hurt someone's feelings.

And once that is done, it will be a year before I it all begins again, the millions of miles of wrapping paper, the slaughtered animals, the wasted food, discarded gifts, the Christmas grinch in my heart worrying and fretting.