Tag: 7

I remember the first time I tried to give someone a plant as a gift. I was 23, broke, and desperate to impress my then-boyfriend’s mother during my first visit to their family home in Norwich. Not knowing what to bring and with approximately £7.50 to my name, I picked up a sad-looking cactus from the corner shop near the train station.

“It’s perfect!” I convinced myself. “Low maintenance, long-lasting, and she’ll think of me every time she looks at it!”

When I proudly presented this prickly specimen (still in its plastic pot with the £2.99 sticker barely hidden), his mum looked at it as if I’d handed her a dead mouse. Turns out she was an award-winning gardener with a greenhouse full of exotic orchids. My pathetic cactus—which I later discovered was spray-painted green to look healthier—sat on a windowsill gathering dust until it eventually, mysteriously, disappeared.

Bloody hell, what a disaster.

Fast-forward fifteen years, and I’ve somehow become the person friends and family expect living plants from. Not because I’m particularly green-fingered (Charlie would laugh himself silly at that suggestion), but because I’ve spent the intervening years figuring out which plants actually make good gifts and, more importantly, how to present them so they feel special rather than like a chore being handed over.

Look, I’ve had my fair share of plant-giving disasters. There was the time I gave my best friend Priya a gorgeous Japanese peace lily for her new flat, completely forgetting she travels constantly for work. Six weeks later, I visited to find what can only be described as a pot of crispy brown sticks. “I loved it so much,” she said sadly, “but I think I loved it to death.” I’ve given temperamental ferns to forgetful people, sun-loving succulents to those living in basement flats, and once, in a moment of complete madness, gifted a Venus flytrap to my seven-year-old nephew (his mother still hasn’t forgiven me for that one).

But I’ve also had some absolute wins—plants that thrived, brought joy, and didn’t make me feel like I was saddling someone with a green obligation they never asked for.

So what have I learned from all this plant-giving chaos? Quite a lot, actually.

First off, know your recipient. I mean, REALLY know them. Not just their aesthetic preferences or how lovely that monstera would look in their living room, but their actual lifestyle. Are they home enough to water something regularly? Do they travel for weeks at a time? Are they the type to feel guilty when something dies under their care? My friend James still mentions the orchid I gave him three years ago that he “murdered” within a month. He brings it up after a few pints—”Remember when you trusted me with a living thing and I failed completely?” Some people don’t need that kind of responsibility, you know?

The most successful plant gifts I’ve given have matched the person’s lifestyle perfectly. For my perpetually busy sister-in-law who can barely remember to water herself, let alone a plant, a collection of air plants in little glass terrariums worked brilliantly. They needed just an occasional misting, looked properly artsy hanging in her kitchen window, and survived her three-week holiday to Greece. Win!

For my dad, who’s meticulous about routines but knows absolutely nothing about plants, I got a peace lily with very specific instructions written on a card: “Water every Monday. One cup only. Don’t move me.” Seven years later, it’s enormous and he’s absurdly proud of it. He introduces visitors to “Emma’s plant” as if it’s another family member.

Here’s what I’ve learned works well for almost everyone: succulents. And I don’t mean just any old basic succulent—I’m talking about carefully selected, interesting varieties arranged thoughtfully. My go-to gift for housewarming parties is a shallow ceramic bowl with three different types of small succulents planted together. They’re nearly impossible to kill (unless you love them too much with overwatering), they grow slowly so they don’t need repotting for ages, and they look intentional rather than like something grabbed last-minute from a supermarket shelf.

The second crucial thing I’ve learned is that presentation transforms a plant from “here’s a thing that needs care” to “here’s a thoughtful gift.” Early on, I would just hand over plants in their nursery pots, possibly with the plastic wrapper still on, thinking the plant itself was the gift. Rookie mistake! Now I know the pot is at least 50% of the present.

I once spent more on a handmade ceramic pot than on the actual snake plant it contained, but my friend Lucy still has it displayed prominently in her hallway four years later. “I would have killed any other plant,” she told me recently, “but this one looked too nice in that pot to neglect.” The right container turns a plant from a responsibility into decor.

For special occasions, I’ll often include a small watering can that matches the pot (IKEA does brilliant little ones for about a fiver) or a mister for humidity-loving plants. It’s practical but also makes the whole thing feel like a proper gift set rather than just… well, foliage.

The third big lesson has been about which specific plants actually survive in most homes. After many tragic plant deaths on my conscience, I’ve developed a mental tier list of gift-worthy houseplants based on hardiness and forgiveness:

Top tier (nearly indestructible): snake plants, ZZ plants, pothos, spider plants
Mid tier (need some attention but forgiving): peace lilies, rubber plants, philodendrons
“Only for people who actually like plants” tier: fiddle leaf figs, orchids, maidenhair ferns

I gave my mother-in-law a ZZ plant five years ago when she moved to a ground-floor flat with terrible lighting. That thing has survived power cuts, heating failures during a particularly brutal winter, and her tendency to forget it exists for weeks at a time. It’s practically thriving on neglect! Meanwhile, the calathea I bought Charlie for his home office lasted approximately 17 days before its leaves curled up in despair. Lesson learned.

The most successful plant gift I’ve ever given was actually for my friend Mira’s 30th birthday. Instead of a single plant, I created what I grandly called a “desktop garden”—a long, narrow planter with three different succulents, a tiny air plant on a small rock, and a miniature jade plant, all nestled in pretty stones. I included a card with minimal care instructions and a tiny copper mister.

Three years later, she’s expanded this little garden across her whole windowsill, propagating new plants from the originals. “It’s become my little hobby,” she told me. “Whenever I feel stressed at work, I look over at them and feel better.” That’s when a plant gift becomes something special—when it sparks joy beyond just being an attractive object.

Of course, I’ve had my share of plant gift disasters too. The worst was probably the herb garden kit I gave my brother and his wife when they bought their first house. I imagined them plucking fresh basil and mint for cooking, enjoying the fragrance of homegrown herbs… I had visions of them thanking me while serving pasta with their own homegrown basil garnish.

Two months later, I visited to find the herbs had not only died but had developed some sort of fungus that had spread to their other houseplants. “We’ve been calling it the herb apocalypse,” my brother said cheerfully, showing me the wasteland of brown stems and white fuzz. “Turns out neither of us remembered to water anything, ever.” I’m now banned from giving them anything that requires more care than a scented candle.

The thing about giving plants as gifts is that they’re actually quite personal. You’re not just giving someone a pretty object; you’re giving them a living thing that requires a relationship of sorts. Some people find that meaningful and therapeutic. Others find it stressful. I’ve learned to suss out which camp someone falls into before I start soil shopping.

For those who might feel burdened by plant care, I’ve discovered that small succulents in beautiful containers with stones or sand arrangements work well—they look more like decorative objects that happen to be alive rather than demanding dependents. For people who travel often, air plants or truly neglect-proof options like snake plants are best. And for those who already have plenty of plants? I go for unusual varieties they might not have, or beautiful accessories like handmade plant misters or decorative watering cans.

The most thoughtful plant gift, though, often comes with a bit of story or meaning attached. When my friend Sophie started her own business, I gave her a small money plant (Pilea peperomioides) in a nice pot with a note explaining that it’s known for bringing prosperity and that it produces lots of baby plants she could share with others as her business grew. Four years on, she’s given “baby pileas” to all her major clients. “It’s become part of my brand story,” she told me. “People actually ask about them now.”

I think that’s the key to giving plants well—finding that sweet spot between something that will survive in their specific environment and something that carries a bit of meaning beyond just being green and pretty. A jade plant for prosperity in a new home, a peace lily for someone who needs a bit of calm, or a string of hearts for someone you, well, love.

Oh, and one final tip I’ve learned the hard way—always check for pets before giving plants! I once gave a gorgeous lily to a colleague, only to have her panic-text me that evening: “Had to put it on top of the kitchen cabinets—apparently highly toxic to cats???” Now I keep a list in my phone of pet-friendly plants (spider plants, certain palms, and hoyas are all safe bets for cat households).

The best part about giving plants is that, when done right, they’re gifts that literally grow and evolve over time. Unlike flowers that wither within days or chocolates that disappear in one Netflix session, a well-chosen plant can become part of someone’s home for years. My aunt still has the jade plant I gave her when I was in university—it’s now massive and takes pride of place in her conservatory. “I’ve named it Emma Junior,” she told me, which is either sweet or slightly weird, I haven’t decided.

So if you’re considering giving someone a plant, take it from me—match the plant to the person, not to what looks prettiest in the garden centre. Put some thought into the presentation. And maybe, just maybe, don’t start with a spray-painted cactus for someone who grows prize-winning orchids. Trust me on that one.

I’ve always had a bit of a reputation in my friend group. “Emma’s gift will make you cry,” they warn newcomers to our circle. “Just wait—she’ll somehow find something that connects to that random story you told her three years ago.” It’s flattering, really, but it’s also created this monster expectation that every present I give needs to be this transcendent emotional experience.

Truth be told? I’ve made people cry with gifts exactly twice. The first time was when I tracked down a first-edition cookbook that belonged to my best friend’s grandmother before it was lost in a house move. The second was a scrapbook of concert ticket stubs and festival wristbands I’d secretly collected from my husband Charlie’s bedside drawer over our first five years together. Both took months of planning, significant cash, and the kind of borderline-obsessive dedication that makes for a lovely story but isn’t exactly sustainable as a gift-giving strategy.

The thing about personalization is that it exists on a spectrum, doesn’t it? On one end, you’ve got the utterly generic—your classic Boots gift set with shower gel and body lotion that could be for literally anyone. On the other end, you’ve got the hyper-specific—like commissioning an oil painting of someone’s childhood home complete with their long-deceased pet cat sitting in the exact window where it used to nap. One shows no effort, the other… well, it might make the recipient wonder if you’ve got a bit too much time on your hands.

I learned about the perils of over-personalization the hard way. For my sister-in-law’s 30th, I created what I thought was the perfect gift. She’d mentioned wanting to get back into painting, something she’d loved at uni but abandoned when “real life” took over. I spent weeks assembling a custom art kit with professional-grade supplies, each item researched to match her specific preferences from years ago. I even hunted down the exact brand of brushes her favorite professor had recommended. I found her old sketchbooks (with her mum’s help) and had some of her student work professionally framed. When she opened it, there was this awful moment of silence.

“This is… a lot,” she finally said, looking overwhelmed rather than delighted.

It wasn’t until later that Charlie explained the problem. “Babe, you basically handed her a massive obligation,” he said gently. “She made one passing comment about missing painting, and you’ve turned it into this whole identity. Now she feels like she has to become An Artist again to justify your effort.”

That hit me like a ton of bricks. In trying to be thoughtful, I’d actually created pressure. I’d taken a casual interest and elevated it to A Defining Characteristic, and now she felt boxed in by my perception of her. It was mortifying.

Since then, I’ve developed what I call my “70% Rule” for personalization. I aim to make a gift personal enough to show I’ve been paying attention (the 70%), but leave enough breathing room that the recipient doesn’t feel trapped by my perception of them (the remaining 30%).

Here’s how it works in practice:

When my colleague mentioned she was trying to cut down on takeaway coffees to save money, I didn’t buy her an elaborate barista setup with personalized coffee beans and a machine that required a PhD to operate. Instead, I got her a really good travel mug in her favorite color with her initial on it. Personal enough to show I’d listened, not so personal that it demanded she become a home-brewing coffee enthusiast.

For my nephew’s birthday, I noticed he’d become obsessed with space. Rather than creating an entire astronomy corner in his bedroom (which I was tempted to do, not gonna lie), I found a glow-in-the-dark constellation blanket and a book about space suitable for his age. Personal but not overwhelming.

The sweet spot, I’ve found, is to focus on one specific aspect rather than trying to capture someone’s entire essence in a gift. It’s the difference between “I noticed you like this particular thing” versus “I HAVE CATALOGUED YOUR ENTIRE PERSONALITY AND CREATED THE ULTIMATE REPRESENTATION OF YOUR SOUL.”

Another trick I’ve learned is to personalize the incidental rather than the main gift. My friend Lucy adores otters—they’re her favorite animal and she’s forever showing me videos of them holding hands while they sleep. For her birthday, I wanted to get her some nice skincare products I knew she’d been eyeing. Instead of going completely otter-mad and buying her every otter-themed item I could find online (tempting!), I got her the skincare and just wrapped it in otter-patterned paper with a little otter charm tied to the ribbon. The main gift was something she actually wanted, and the personalization was in the presentation. She got the message that I pay attention to her interests without ending up with an otter-themed life she never asked for.

This approach has saved me countless hours of overthinking and probably preserved several friendships. It’s also much easier on the wallet. When I was in my twenties, I once spent so much on creating a personalized whisky tasting experience for Charlie’s birthday that I had to eat beans on toast for two weeks afterward. He loved it, but also felt terrible when he realized how much I’d spent. These days, I might get him one really good bottle of whisky with a glass engraved with an inside joke—it hits the same note without the financial hemorrhage.

The timing of personalization matters too. Early in a friendship or relationship, going too deep too soon can feel a bit… stalkerish? My cousin once went on three dates with a bloke who then presented her with a necklace featuring her exact birthflower in the correct birthstone setting. “How did he even know when my birthday is?” she texted me, slightly panicked. “I’ve not told him that!” (Turned out he’d done some serious Instagram archaeology to find a post from the previous year.)

There’s a world of difference between “I remembered you mentioned liking this author” and “I’ve memorized every preference you’ve ever expressed and am now reflecting them back to you in gift form.” The former is attentive; the latter makes people wonder if you have a spreadsheet tracking their every comment (which I absolutely do not have anymore after Charlie found it and staged an intervention).

I’ve also learned to be mindful of personalization that might inadvertently limit someone. My mum once complained that after she made one positive comment about loving a hedgehog figurine she saw in a charity shop, she received nothing but hedgehog-themed gifts for the next five Christmases and birthdays. “I’m drowning in ceramic hedgehogs,” she told me. “People think they’re being thoughtful, but now I’m apparently The Hedgehog Lady forever.” She was stuck in a personalization loop she couldn’t escape.

To avoid this, I try to personalize based on current interests rather than historical ones whenever possible. Just because someone collected teapots in 2012 doesn’t mean they want to be receiving teapot-adjacent gifts until the end of time. People change, and our gift-giving should acknowledge that flexibility.

Sometimes the most personal gifts aren’t actually “personalized” at all. Last Christmas, my brother had been having a particularly rough time at work—60-hour weeks and a boss from hell. Rather than getting him something with his name on it or related to his hobby (which he had zero time for anyway), I booked him a massage at a proper fancy spa near his flat. Nothing about it was customized or unique to him specifically, but it was deeply personal because it responded to his actual current need: stress relief and permission to rest.

This is perhaps the most important insight I’ve had about personalization—the best gifts respond to who someone is right now, not who they were or who we want them to be. It’s about seeing the person in front of you clearly, not constructing an elaborate narrative about their identity based on that one time three years ago they said they liked penguins.

Of course, there are times when going all-out on personalization makes sense. Milestone birthdays, weddings, retirements—these are occasions that can support a bit more effort and specificity. The birth of my friend’s first child warranted a more elaborately personalized gift (a keepsake box with the baby’s name, birthdate, and a special message) than, say, a housewarming where a nice bottle of wine and some quality tea towels will do just fine.

Trust your gut on this one. If you’re spending hours trawling the internet for increasingly obscure items related to someone’s passing interest, you might be crossing into over-personalization territory. If you’re staying up until 3 AM working on a personalized gift when you have work the next day, take a step back. The best gifts should bring joy to both the giver and the receiver, not leave one party emotionally drained and financially depleted.

I still keep a notes app on my phone where I jot down gift ideas when people mention something they like or need. It’s not a comprehensive surveillance operation—just a helpful memory aid for when birthdays roll around. And yes, I still occasionally go overboard for the people closest to me, but I’ve accepted that not every gift needs to be (or should be) an emotional showstopper.

The best compliment I ever received about a gift wasn’t “This is amazing, how did you find this?” or “I can’t believe you remembered!” It was much simpler. My friend opened the cookbook I’d given her—selected because she’d mentioned wanting to cook more vegetarian meals, but not personalized beyond that—and said, “This is perfect. It feels like me, but I never would have found it for myself.” That’s the sweet spot: personal enough to feel thoughtful, not so personal it feels suffocating.

In the end, the most meaningful aspect of gift-giving isn’t about brilliant personalization strategies or tracking people’s preferences like some sort of benevolent detective. It’s about the simple human connection of saying, “I see you, I value you, and I’ve been paying enough attention to have some idea of what might bring you joy.” Sometimes that’s a highly personalized creation, but more often, it’s just a well-chosen item given with genuine affection. And honestly? That’s personal enough.

I never thought I’d be the one advocating for giving less. Me, of all people! If you knew my history with presents, you’d understand why this is nothing short of revolutionary.

Last Christmas Eve, I found myself buried under a mountain of wrapping paper at 1:37 AM, surrounded by gift bags, tissue paper, and approximately seventeen different ribbons. Charlie walked in, bleary-eyed in his pajamas, took one look at me and said, “Em, you’ve gone proper mental this time.” He wasn’t wrong.

I’d spent nearly three months planning, shopping, and assembling what I thought were the perfect gifts for everyone from my parents to our postman. My gift spreadsheet (yes, I maintain one, and no, I won’t apologize for it) had 43 people on it. FORTY-THREE. With color-coding for delivery methods, wrapping styles, and backup gifts in case the primary ones didn’t arrive in time.

It was exhausting. Expensive. And if I’m being brutally honest—which apparently happens at 2 AM when you’re surrounded by ribbon curls and running on nothing but mince pies and determination—it wasn’t even making me happy anymore.

“What am I doing?” I whispered, more to myself than to Charlie. He sat down beside me on the floor, careful not to disturb my meticulously organized gift piles.

“You’re trying to make everyone happy,” he said, gently tugging a piece of tape from my hair. “Like you always do.”

And that’s when it hit me—harder than that time I walked straight into a glass door at Selfridges while carrying seven shopping bags. I was drowning in presents, but somehow missing the point entirely.

See, gift-giving has always been my thing. My love language. My slightly-out-of-control obsession, according to most of my friends. At university, I was notorious for remembering not just birthdays, but half-birthdays, exam celebration days, and “because it’s Tuesday and you seemed sad” occasions. My flatmate Priya once joked that living with me was like sharing space with a very organized Father Christmas who operated year-round.

I built an entire career around this obsession, for goodness’ sake! I literally get paid to tell people what to buy for others. My office cupboard at work is basically a small gift shop for emergencies. (“Quick! My sister’s baby just arrived three weeks early!” “Hold on, let me check the newborn drawer…”)

But something had shifted. Gift-giving had transformed from a joy into a burden, from a genuine expression of love into a frantic obligation. I was stressed. Skint. Staying up until ridiculous hours ordering “just one more thing” because surely THAT would be the item that made the gift feel complete.

“I’m done,” I said suddenly, startling Charlie who’d nearly dozed off against the sofa. “Not with this batch of presents, obviously—I’m in too deep now. But after this? I’m changing my whole approach.”

Charlie looked skeptical. “You’ve said that before. Remember Operation Birthday Simplification last year?”

He had a point. My grand plan to “simplify” had somehow resulted in me creating personalized birthday experience boxes with multiple small presents instead of one large gift. Technically fewer pounds spent, but about triple the effort. Not exactly a smashing success in the simplification department.

“This is different,” I insisted. “I’m not just cutting back. I’m rethinking the whole bloody thing.”

And so began what I now dramatically refer to as my “Minimalist Gift Revolution.” Though if we’re being proper honest, it started less as a revolution and more as a desperate attempt to claw back some sanity (and bank balance).

My first opportunity came with my brother Luke’s birthday in February. Normally, I’d have been plotting since December, collecting items for a themed gift collection. Last year it was “Apocalypse Survival Kit” with fancy tinned foods, an emergency radio, and a personalized zombie family portrait (don’t ask). The year before, “Around the World in 30 Items” featuring tiny souvenirs from places he’d mentioned wanting to visit.

This time, I took a deep breath and bought… one thing. Just ONE. A vintage first-edition record of The Clash’s “London Calling” that I’d spotted in a charity shop in Camden. I didn’t supplement it with Clash-themed socks or a custom bookmark or a bloody hand-illustrated card with song lyrics. Just the record, wrapped simply in brown paper with a plain gift tag.

I felt positively naked handing it over. Like I’d shown up to a formal dinner in my pajamas. The gift felt so… insufficient. So unlike me.

Luke unwrapped it, stared at it for a long moment, then looked up with genuine shock. “How did you find this? I’ve been looking for ages!” What followed was nearly forty minutes of him telling me about why this album mattered to him, memories of discovering The Clash through a school friend’s older brother, and how he’d been hunting for this particular pressing for years.

In all the elaborate gifts I’d given him, I’d never seen this response. He didn’t just appreciate the item—he connected with ME over it. We had a proper conversation instead of the usual routine: him expressing gratitude for my excessive thoughtfulness while I hovered anxiously, pointing out clever details he might have missed.

“This is perfect, Em,” he said finally. “Seriously. Just perfect.”

I felt something shift inside me. The gift wasn’t perfect because it was part of an elaborate scheme or because I’d spent weeks orchestrating it. It was perfect because it was exactly right for HIM, and nothing more.

Emboldened by this success, I decided to test my minimalist approach with Mum’s birthday next. This was high-stakes. My mother expects thoroughness. The previous year, I’d given her a “Garden Transformation” gift with handmade plant markers, premium seeds, specialized tools, gardening books, and a hand-knitted (by me, terribly) garden hat. She’d been delighted but had later confessed she felt overwhelmed about using everything “properly.”

This time, I gave her one gorgeous Japanese ceramic planter I’d found at Columbia Road Flower Market. That’s it. No supplementary gardening gloves. No coordinating seeds. Just the planter, which reminded me of her favorite blue and white china.

When she opened it, she immediately started planning where to put it and what would grow best in it. Instead of the usual “Oh my goodness, you’ve done far too much!” followed by slight panic about how to use everything, we spent her birthday afternoon at the garden center together, picking out the perfect plant for her new pot.

It was lovely. Present as experience rather than present as stuff. And the time together meant infinitely more than any elaborate gift assembly ever could.

After these early successes, I began applying my minimalist gift philosophy more broadly. For wedding gifts, instead of curating elaborate hampers of multiple items, I started giving one significant piece that would last (accompanied by a heartfelt card explaining why I’d chosen it). For thank-you gifts, I replaced my standard “appreciation bundles” with single, meaningful items or experiences.

The results were startling:

People remembered what I gave them. When you give someone fifteen small things, they might remember the overall impression but rarely specific items. When you give ONE thing with intention, it sticks.

My relationships deepened. Without the buffer of elaborate gifts between us, I found myself having more meaningful conversations. I spent less time planning presents and more time being present (sorry—couldn’t resist the pun).

I saved ridiculous amounts of money. Without the “just one more thing to round it out” syndrome, my gift budget shrank by about 60%. SIXTY PERCENT! That’s nearly two months’ rent I’d been spending on supplementary gifts nobody really needed.

I rediscovered joy in giving. When each gift carries the full weight of your intention rather than being one of many, the choosing becomes more meaningful. I spent time finding one right thing instead of many adequate things.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve gone full ascetic. I still keep an emergency gift drawer (old habits die hard). I still maintain my gift ideas spreadsheet (a girl needs her systems). But the lists are shorter now. The gifts are fewer, simpler, more intentional.

Charlie says the change is most noticeable in my stress levels. “You used to get this wild look in your eye around any gift-giving occasion,” he told me recently. “Like you were solving a complex mathematical equation while simultaneously running from a bear.”

My work has shifted too. My column now frequently explores quality over quantity, the psychology of meaningful single gifts, and how to break the cycle of reciprocal escalation (you know, when someone gives you something nice so you feel compelled to give them something SLIGHTLY nicer next time, and suddenly you’re both giving each other increasingly elaborate presents neither of you needs).

Last month, my editor Rebecca stopped by my desk after reading my latest piece on “The Single Perfect Gift Theory.”

“This is brilliant,” she said, “but I’m curious—what prompted the shift? You were always our resident ‘more is more’ gift expert.”

I told her about that Christmas Eve breakdown amid the wrapping paper mountain. About realizing I was giving to satisfy something in myself rather than truly connecting with the recipients. About discovering that one perfect thing often means more than a dozen pretty good things.

“It’s like I was shouting with my gifts,” I explained. “Making absolutely sure people knew how much I cared by the sheer volume of stuff. Now I’m trying to speak more clearly, with fewer words.”

Rebecca nodded thoughtfully. “So when’s your birthday then? I want to try this minimalist gifting approach on you.”

“November 12th,” I replied automatically. “But honestly, just a card would be—”

“Perfect,” she finished for me, smiling. “I know exactly what to get you.”

Two months later on my birthday, she handed me a small, simply wrapped package. Inside was a beautiful leather-bound notebook with a handwritten note: “For your next gift revolution. The best ideas always start on paper.”

Just one thing. Just right.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned in all this? Minimalist gifting isn’t about being cheap or lazy. It’s about being deliberate. It’s about creating space for connection rather than compensation. It’s about saying “I see you” instead of “Look how much I did.”

Sometimes the most meaningful thing we can give is our full attention—finding that one perfect item that speaks volumes, rather than a chorus of objects that drown each other out.

And yes, I still sometimes stay up too late wrapping presents. Old habits and all that. But now it’s one perfect gift per person—and I’m in bed by midnight. Progress, I’d say. Proper progress.

I discovered my talent for secondhand gift-giving completely by accident. When Charlie and I moved into our first flat together seven years ago, we were properly skint—you know how it is with London rents. Our Christmas budget that year stretched about as far as a packet of Nice biscuits and maybe a festive card if we were feeling extravagant.

There I was, wandering through a charity shop in Stoke Newington, when I spotted this gorgeous vintage cocktail shaker. Proper art deco style, still gleaming despite being God knows how old. Eight quid! For something that would’ve cost eighty new! Charlie had been banging on about wanting to learn how to make proper Old Fashioneds for months, clipping recipes from the weekend papers like some sort of 1950s housewife. (He still does this, by the way—refuses to bookmark anything online, says it’s “not the same experience.” Ridiculous man.)

When he unwrapped it on Christmas morning, his face lit up like I’d handed him the crown jewels. “This is bloody perfect, Em! How did you…” Then he paused, turning it over in his hands. “Hang on, is this vintage?”

I felt this weird flush of embarrassment. “Yeah, found it in Oxfam. I can get you a new one if you’d prefer—”

“Are you mad? This is brilliant! It’s got history. Someone’s made hundreds of cocktails with this thing. It’s got…I dunno…cocktail karma!”

That was the moment. Standing there in our tiny living room with the radiator making that weird clanking noise it always did, both of us still in our pajamas, me with a massive sense of relief washing over me. I realized I’d been properly anxious about giving him something secondhand. Like it somehow meant I valued him less.

Which is completely barmy when you think about it. I mean, I’d spent hours hunting through charity shops to find something perfect rather than just clicking “buy now” on Amazon after a 30-second search. If anything, it showed I cared more, right?

That cocktail shaker sits on our drinks trolley to this day. It’s outlasted three IKEA sofas and countless “new” items that broke, got boring, or just disappeared into the black hole of our storage cupboard. And every time Charlie uses it, he tells guests its little origin story, like he’s showing off some family heirloom.

Since then, I’ve become a bit of a pre-loved gift evangelist. My gift cupboard (yes, I have an entire cupboard dedicated to gifts, and no, Charlie is not allowed to “reorganize” it) is now about 60% secondhand treasures waiting for their perfect recipients. My mum was properly scandalized the first time I told her. “You’re giving USED things as presents?” she gasped, like I’d suggested serving roadkill at a dinner party.

But here’s the thing about secondhand gifts—they force you to be thoughtful in a way that frantically clicking through a gift guide’s “top 10 presents for her” simply doesn’t. You can’t panic-buy a secondhand gift at 11pm on Christmas Eve (trust me, I’ve tried—charity shops have frustratingly reasonable opening hours). You have to keep your eyes open, remember what people love, and pounce when you see the right thing.

Last year, my friend Sonia mentioned she’d been trying to find a copy of Nigella’s first cookbook forever—said it was the only one missing from her collection. Three months later, I spotted a pristine copy in a charity shop in Bath when I was there for a work thing. Two quid! I snatched it up like I was participating in some sort of high-stakes retail competition. When her birthday rolled around and she unwrapped it, she actually squealed. Proper full-volume squealing, in the middle of Pizza Express. The couple at the next table looked properly alarmed.

“How did you FIND this?” she demanded, already flipping through the pages.

“Just got lucky,” I shrugged, feeling insufferably smug about my secondhand gift triumph.

“No, seriously,” she insisted. “I’ve been searching online for ages. All the copies are either ridiculously expensive or look like they’ve been drowned in bolognese sauce.”

That’s the other secret about secondhand gifts—they can actually be more valuable than new ones. Vintage books, discontinued perfumes, rare vinyl records, that obscure kitchen gadget someone mentioned once that isn’t made anymore…these things have a worth beyond their price tag.

Of course, there are rules. I’m not some chaotic gift-giver who just wraps up any old tat from the charity shop and calls it thoughtful. I’ve developed quite the system over the years (surprise, surprise—those who know about my gift spreadsheets are rolling their eyes right now).

Rule number one: Know your audience. My sister-in-law Lucy would rather die than receive something secondhand. She’s the type who buys new towels if someone she doesn’t know well enough has stayed over. I respect her preference and get her shiny new things still in their packaging with the tags attached. Meanwhile, my brother Dave actively prefers vintage stuff and gets properly excited about things with “character” (his word for small dents and scratches).

Rule number two: Condition matters. There’s a spectrum between “lovingly pre-owned” and “this should probably be binned.” I aim for the former. Books shouldn’t have pages falling out. Clothes shouldn’t have mysterious stains. Record collections shouldn’t be scratched to bits. This seems obvious, but I’ve received some properly dire secondhand gifts over the years. My aunt once gave me a handbag with someone else’s crumpled tissues still in the inside pocket. Not exactly the treasure-hunting experience I’m advocating for.

Rule number three: Clean everything thoroughly. Even if it looks spotless. I’ve got a whole routine—clothes get washed or dry-cleaned, books get wiped down and aired out, homeware items get a proper scrub. Nothing ruins the magic of a secondhand gift faster than it smelling like someone else’s house. (Exception: vintage perfume bottles, which somehow always smell faintly of old ladies and face powder no matter what you do. That’s part of their charm.)

Rule number four: Presentation is everything. I’m not saying you need to disguise the secondhand nature of your gift—quite the opposite. But beautiful wrapping, a thoughtful card, and perhaps a little note about why you chose this specific item makes all the difference. “I found this first edition of your favorite childhood book” hits differently than just handing over an old book with no context.

Rule number five (and this is the one people get wrong): Never, ever present a secondhand gift as new. That’s just weird and dishonest. The story—the hunt, the find, the history—is half the gift.

Last Christmas, I found a gorgeous vintage silk scarf for my mother-in-law. Deep emerald green with tiny gold stars—exactly her colors. When she opened it, I told her I’d found it in this tiny vintage shop in Hastings when Charlie and I were there for a weekend break. I mentioned how the pattern reminded me of a dress she’d worn to our wedding rehearsal dinner, and how the shopkeeper had told me it was likely from the 1960s.

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” she said, running her fingers over the silk. “And to think, someone treasured this before, and now I get to treasure it too.”

Well. If that doesn’t justify my secondhand gift philosophy, I don’t know what does.

Of course, there have been disasters. When I was still refining my approach, I bought my friend Tom a vintage leather jacket that I thought was perfectly distressed in that cool, I-don’t-try-too-hard way. Turns out what looked like artistic wear and tear in the dimly lit charity shop was actually serious damage to the leather. Poor Tom tried valiantly to seem pleased while essentially modeling what looked like something a moth had used as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Lesson learned: always, ALWAYS check secondhand items in natural light before purchasing.

Then there was the time I gave my cousin Emma (yes, same name, family tradition, bit confusing at gatherings) an absolutely gorgeous set of vintage cocktail glasses, only to discover she’d just started recovery for alcohol addiction. That was… not my finest gifting moment. She was incredibly gracious about it, but I still cringe when I remember her face as she unwrapped them. These days I keep much better mental notes about people’s life situations before choosing gifts.

The pandemic actually kicked my secondhand gifting into high gear. With shops closed and everyone panic-buying online, delivery times stretched to ridiculous lengths. Meanwhile, I had my trusty gift cupboard full of pre-loved treasures I’d been collecting throughout the year. While friends were sending apologetic texts about presents that wouldn’t arrive until mid-January, I was sorted. It felt like vindication for my “slightly odd” (Charlie’s words) habit of buying gifts months in advance.

I’ve expanded my hunting grounds beyond charity shops now. Car boot sales are treasure troves if you’ve got the patience to sift through the tat. Estate sales can be goldmines, though they sometimes make me feel a bit morbid. Online marketplaces are brilliant for finding specific items, though they lack the serendipitous joy of spotting something perfect that you weren’t even looking for.

My most recent secondhand gift triumph was finding a set of 1950s astronomy guides for my father-in-law, who’s been obsessed with stargazing since he got a telescope for his retirement. They were these beautiful hardback books with gilt edges and color plates that still looked vibrant despite being older than I am. Cost me £12 for the set of three in this dusty bookshop in York. When he opened them on his birthday, he went completely silent, which is not his usual reaction to, well, anything.

“These are extraordinary,” he finally said, voice a bit wobbly. “My father had these exact books. I used to look at them with him when I was a boy. I’ve no idea what happened to them after he died.”

Charlie gave me that look—you know, the one that says “you’ve outdone yourself this time.” I’d love to claim I knew about the connection to his grandfather, but it was pure coincidence. Sometimes the secondhand gift gods just smile on you.

I think what I love most about giving pre-loved gifts is that they feel like a tiny rebellion against our throwaway culture. In a world of next-day delivery and “new phone every year” mentality, there’s something properly subversive about saying, “This thing already exists, it’s beautiful, and it deserves a second life with someone who’ll appreciate it.”

Not everything needs to be box-fresh to be valuable. Some things—many things, actually—improve with age and history. The scratches and tiny imperfections tell stories. That’s what I’m really giving when I wrap up something secondhand—not just an object, but its story, continued now through someone I care about.

So yes, my gift cupboard remains stubbornly filled with treasures from the past, waiting for their perfect match. Charlie has stopped asking if we really need “another weird ceramic thing” or “more old books that smell funny.” He gets it now.

And that vintage cocktail shaker that started it all? It’s made hundreds more cocktails in our home. It’s been the centerpiece at dinner parties, featured in countless Instagram posts (always with proper credit to its charity shop origins), and even traveled with us to a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds because Charlie insisted we couldn’t make proper drinks without it.

Sometimes the best gifts aren’t new. They’re just new to you.

Let me tell you something – there’s nothing quite like the look of mild disappointment when someone unwraps a gift basket filled with random bits they’ll never use. You know the one – that polite “oh, how lovely” while they’re mentally calculating how quickly they can pass it on to someone else. I’ve been on both sides of this awkward exchange more times than I’d care to admit.

Years ago, I gave my mother-in-law what I thought was a lovely pamper hamper. Three months later, I spotted the unopened lavender foot cream in her guest bathroom, the bath bombs collecting dust on a shelf, and the fancy tea still sealed tight. The only thing missing was the chocolate – at least Charlie had enjoyed something from my so-called “thoughtful” gift.

That’s when I had my gift basket epiphany. Most pre-made hampers and baskets are, let’s face it, a bit rubbish. They’re either filled with mediocre products nobody particularly wants, or they’re so generic they could be given to literally anyone. Where’s the personal touch in that?

Since that humbling moment, I’ve developed a bit of a formula for creating gift baskets that people actually use – ones that feel curated rather than randomly assembled. The kind that make the recipient go, “Hang on, this is actually brilliant!”

First things first, you need a proper theme. Not just “pamper” or “foodie” – that’s far too broad. I’m talking specific, tailored themes that speak directly to the person’s actual life and interests. For my dad’s 60th, I created what I called a “Garden Detective” basket. He’d recently become obsessed with identifying birds in his garden, so I included a proper pair of binoculars, a beautiful illustrated bird guide specific to British garden species, a weatherproof notebook, a thermos flask (because British garden watching requires hot tea regardless of season), and some shortbread biscuits (his favourite). Every single item supported his actual hobby in a practical way.

The trick is to make each item connect meaningfully to the next. Random assortments of nice things aren’t the same as a thoughtfully curated collection. When my friend Lisa qualified as a solicitor after years of study, I resisted the temptation to just throw together generic “congratulations” items. Instead, I created a “First Week Survival Kit” with a beautiful leather document holder (embossed with her initials), a proper fountain pen, emergency snacks for her desk drawer, a tiny bottle of champagne with a stemless glass (for celebrating her first win), and a humorous legal dictionary. Each item told part of a story – her story.

Quality over quantity is absolutely essential. I’d rather include three really good items than eight mediocre ones. Nobody needs more clutter, regardless of how pretty the basket looks. My colleague Martin once showed me a gift hamper he’d received that contained fourteen different items, and I genuinely think only two were things he’d ever use. The rest were just taking up space. What a waste!

When my sister started her new teaching job, I created a basket with just four items: a genuinely good insulated coffee mug (teachers never get to drink their tea while it’s hot), a beautiful notebook from Paperchase, a set of colourful fineliners that wouldn’t bleed through the pages, and a really good hand cream (because constant hand washing and paper handling wrecks your skin). Four things, but each one was exactly what she needed and of proper quality.

For presentation, I’ve learned to steer clear of those enormous cellophane-wrapped monstrosities. They’re impossible to transport, the cellophane always tears, and half the time the contents shift around creating an avalanche when opened. Instead, I look for containers that are part of the gift. For my husband’s birthday camping theme, everything went into a proper enamel bowl that’s now his favourite for morning porridge when we’re out in the tent. For my niece’s art basket, I used a sturdy toolbox that now holds all her supplies.

Here’s something that took me embarrassingly long to figure out – people actually appreciate when you make the opening experience straightforward. Nobody enjoys wrestling with sixteen metres of ribbon while everyone watches. Keep the unwrapping simple but special. I like using fabric wraps (furoshiki style) for baskets now – the wrapping becomes a bonus gift, and there’s no awkward moment of someone trying to shove mountains of tissue paper back into the basket to “save it for later.”

The price point is another consideration. I’ve found it works best when all items feel like they’re in a similar value bracket. It’s jarring to open a basket and find a £40 bottle of whisky next to a 99p packet of crisps, no matter how “artisanal” those crisps might be. The items don’t need to cost exactly the same, but they should feel like they belong together.

I once made this mistake with a housewarming basket. I included a gorgeous handmade ceramic serving bowl I’d found at a craft fair (quite pricey) alongside some fairly ordinary tea towels I’d grabbed last-minute from Sainsbury’s. The disconnect was obvious, and it made the lovely bowl seem out of place and the tea towels look a bit sad. Lesson learned.

The most successful baskets I’ve created follow a “use case” approach. Rather than random nice things, I think about a specific situation where everything would be used together. For my friend’s 30th, I created what I called a “Perfect Sunday Morning” basket – a beautiful cafetière, specialty coffee beans, two perfect chunky mugs, fancy granola, local honey, and the Sunday papers delivered for a month. It created an entire experience rather than just a collection of items.

One of my absolute favourite baskets to create is what I call the “Upgrade Basket” – taking something ordinary in someone’s life and elevating every aspect of it. My brother drinks an embarrassing amount of instant coffee, so for Christmas I gave him an “Instant Coffee Upgrade” basket. Not fancy beans or brewing equipment (which he’d never use), but a proper insulated travel mug, premium instant coffee (yes, it exists!), some flavoured syrups, and a brilliant metal measuring spoon. He still drinks instant coffee, but now it’s a significantly better experience.

Seasonality matters too. A picnic basket given in November in Britain is unlikely to see much use before next summer. By then, the recipient will have forgotten about half the contents or, worse, the food items will have expired. I try to create baskets that can be used immediately – there’s something lovely about the recipient texting you the very next day to say they’re already enjoying their gifts.

I’ve also learned that dietary requirements and personal preferences shouldn’t be an afterthought. They should be central to your planning. I once spent ages creating what I thought was the perfect Italian food hamper for my colleague, only to remember halfway through that she’s gluten-intolerant. Cue a panicked last-minute overhaul. Now I keep notes on my close friends’ preferences (yes, in an actual document on my phone – Charlie thinks it’s completely mental, but it’s saved me countless times).

For children’s gift baskets, I’ve found that focusing on a specific activity rather than just “stuff” works brilliantly. My goddaughter received what I called an “Explorer’s Kit” for her 7th birthday – a child-sized backpack containing a compass, a magnifying glass, a nature scavenger hunt I’d created, a sketch pad, coloured pencils, and some snacks for “expeditions.” Her mum told me it kept her entertained for the entire summer holidays.

One final tip – include something consumable. Even in non-food baskets, having something that eventually gets used up prevents the gift from becoming permanent clutter. For a new home basket, this might be luxury hand soap or candles. For a hobby basket, it could be materials that get used in the craft.

I’ve lost count of how many gift baskets I’ve created over the years, but I can tell you precisely which ones were successes – they’re the ones where months or even years later, I visit someone’s home and spot the items still in use. Like the cooking basket I made for my friend Sam, whose kitchen drawer still contains the microplane grater and measuring spoons I included three years ago. Or my mum, who still uses the gardening basket items every spring.

The true measure of a successful gift basket isn’t how impressive it looks when opened – it’s whether the items find their way into the recipient’s daily life. If you’re putting together a basket and notice you’re adding things just to “fill it out” or make it look more substantial, stop right there. That’s exactly how useless clutter creeps in.

Creating a truly personal gift basket takes more thought than grabbing a pre-made one from the shop, but the difference in reception is night and day. When someone unwraps a collection of items that feel chosen specifically for them – items that connect to each other and tell a coherent story – that’s when you get the genuine smile, not the polite grimace. And that, if you ask me, is worth every bit of extra effort.

Oh, and that mother-in-law who received the failed pamper hamper? Two years later, I gave her a “Garden Tea Break” basket with proper gardening gloves, seeds for her favourite flowers, a soil thermometer she’d mentioned wanting, and yes, some fancy tea and biscuits for when she takes a break from weeding. She uses every single item regularly, and more importantly, she mentions it unprompted whenever I visit. Now that’s how you know you’ve cracked the gift basket code.

I’ve been thinking a lot about money and presents lately. Not in that awkward “how much did you spend on me” way we all pretend doesn’t matter (but absolutely does). It’s more about how the price of a gift creates this weird invisible forcefield around the entire exchange that nobody talks about openly.

Last month, Charlie and I were at his sister Beth’s birthday dinner. She’d unwrapped this gorgeous hand-painted ceramic bowl from her friend Maisie – proper artisanal stuff that probably cost about £30. Beth was literally stroking it, going on about how perfect it would look with her new dining table. Then she opened our gift – a fancy bottle of champagne and a spa voucher worth five times as much – and gave us a polite “oh lovely, thanks” before putting it aside. Charlie didn’t notice, but I was properly gutted. The champagne would be gone in an evening, the voucher possibly forgotten in her handbag, while Maisie’s bowl would be displayed and admired for years.

It got me thinking about all the times I’ve been on both sides of this equation. I’m someone who spent years studying the psychology of gifting (yes, really – I was that sad student with spreadsheets tracking gift successes), and even I still get it wrong sometimes. Price points in gift-giving are like this invisible emotional minefield we’re all tiptoeing through.

Let’s start with the super cheap but meaningful gift, shall we? My mate Priya is the absolute queen of the under-a-tenner present that somehow makes you feel like she’s reached inside your brain and plucked out your deepest desires. Last Christmas, she gave me a £7 secondhand book – a rare edition of a childhood favourite I’d mentioned ONCE during a wine-fuelled chat six months earlier. I actually cried. Meanwhile, my wealthy aunt regularly sends £100 John Lewis vouchers that I’m always grateful for but that never prompt more than a dutiful thank-you text.

The thing is, when we receive gifts, we’re not really judging them on monetary value (unless you’re my ex-boyfriend Marcus, who literally Google-searched everything I gave him, the absolute wanker). We’re assessing how well the giver knows us. That’s why a cheap gift that perfectly aligns with your interests feels more valuable than an expensive but generic one.

I learned this lesson the hard way during my first year working at British Celebrations. My salary had tripled from my previous job, and I went absolutely mental at Christmas, splashing out on everyone. My mum got this ridiculously expensive cashmere cardigan in a beautiful emerald green. She smiled politely when she opened it, but I could tell something was off. Later, I found it still in its box when I visited three months later. “It’s too nice to wear around the house,” she explained, which is mum-code for “this doesn’t fit into my actual life at all.” The next year, I bought her four inexpensive but incredibly soft M&S jumpers in the practical colours she actually wears, and she texts me photos of herself wearing them at least once a fortnight.

There’s something uncomfortable about receiving a gift that’s clearly much more expensive than what you’d typically buy for that person. I once had a new friend give me a £200 pair of designer sunglasses for my birthday when we’d only known each other for about three months. Instead of being thrilled, I felt weirdly anxious – like I now owed her something or had misunderstood the nature of our friendship. Was this normal for her? Was I supposed to reciprocate at this level? The sunglasses sat in their case for ages because wearing them made me feel self-conscious, like I was carrying around evidence of a friendship imbalance on my face.

On the flip side, I’ve definitely been the over-gifter too. When Charlie and I first started dating, I gave him this elaborate homemade birthday gift – a custom-built miniature version of his childhood treehouse based on photos his mum had shown me, complete with tiny working lights and furniture. It took me weeks to make. His face when he opened it was a complicated mixture of awe and mild terror. “This is… incredible. I got you concert tickets,” he said, looking slightly panicked. Poor bloke thought I was going to be disappointed, when actually his gift was perfect – something we could experience together rather than an object that silently screamed “I’VE FALLEN TOO HARD TOO FAST.”

The mid-range gift (that £20-50 sweet spot) often seems to be the safest territory. It’s substantial enough to show thought without triggering the awkwardness that can come with extreme price points. My friend group has naturally settled around this range for birthdays, and honestly, it removes so much stress. But even this “safe zone” isn’t foolproof.

I once spent £40 on a supposedly perfect gift for my colleague Sara – a specially sourced Japanese green tea set because she’d mentioned loving her time in Tokyo. When she opened it, there was this microsecond flash of confusion before she recovered and thanked me profusely. Turns out she’d developed an intolerance to green tea since her Japan days and couldn’t actually drink the stuff anymore. Meanwhile, at the same office exchange, someone gave her a £12 desk plant that she absolutely adored and still has three years later.

The price-to-meaning ratio seems to follow its own bizarre logic. I’ve noticed that gifts under £15 are often judged purely on thoughtfulness – nobody expects a tenner to change their life, so when a cheap gift shows real observation, it’s delightful. Gifts between £15-50 seem to face the toughest scrutiny – they need to be both thoughtful AND useful or beautiful to truly land. And once you go over £50, there’s this weird pressure for the gift to somehow justify its price tag through either extreme practicality or luxury.

I’ve conducted some decidedly unscientific research on this (meaning I’ve interrogated literally everyone I know about their gift experiences after a few drinks). The most treasured gifts people mentioned rarely correlated with price. My brother’s favourite gift ever was a £15 personalised keyring from his girlfriend with coordinates of where they first met. My best friend Sophie still talks about the mix CD I made her when we were 16 – literally cost me nothing but time. Meanwhile, her ex once bought her a £600 designer handbag that she quietly sold on eBay six months later.

There’s also the absolute nightmare territory of group gifts, where price points become explicitly discussed. You know how it goes – someone suggests chipping in for a colleague’s leaving present, then Stephanie from HR sends round that passive-aggressive email: “Thinking £25 each would be appropriate.” And suddenly you’re mentally calculating if Jenny who’s been here three months should pay the same as Muhammad who’s worked alongside them for five years, and whether you’ll be judged if you suggest a tenner instead.

I once organised a wedding gift for my childhood friend Leila. We had friends with wildly different financial situations, from struggling students to established professionals. I suggested a tiered system – contribute what you can between £10-50, and everyone would sign the same card regardless. One friend privately messaged me asking if her £10 contribution would be listed somewhere, worried about looking cheap. Another insisted on sending £100 and making sure Leila knew exactly what portion of the gift was from her. The whole thing became this strange exercise in gift economics rather than a celebration of our friend’s marriage.

Christmas is where the price point anxiety reaches its peak, isn’t it? The unspoken calculations: how much did they spend on me last year? Are we at the same gifting level? The silent crushing disappointment when you’ve spent £40 on someone who got you a £5 charity shop book (that they possibly regifted – Sarah, I saw that faded gift tag inside, you monster).

My family tried setting a £30 limit one year to ease this tension. It was a complete disaster. My sister Olivia is the queen of finding incredible bargains, so her “£30” gifts looked suspiciously generous. Meanwhile, my brother Tom interpreted the limit as “approximately £30” and spent closer to £50 on everyone. I stuck rigidly to £29.99 per person and ended up feeling oddly resentful, like I was the only one following the rules of a game nobody else was actually playing.

The most awkward price point situations definitely come with new relationships – romantic or friendship. There’s that terrifying period where you haven’t established your gift baseline yet. The first birthday, the first Christmas – these are treacherous waters. Go too expensive and you might seem overwhelming; too cheap and you risk seeming uninterested.

When Charlie and I had our first Christmas together, I had a proper meltdown in Boots three days before, clutching a basket containing both a reasonable £35 grooming set AND a significantly more expensive watch I couldn’t really afford. I ended up buying both and keeping the receipts for both, planning to make a game-time decision based on whatever he gave me. Utterly ridiculous behaviour. (For the record, we matched almost exactly without prior discussion, both spending about £60 on small collections of thoughtful items. I returned the watch and learned an important lesson about not being a completely neurotic gift-giver.)

I think what I’ve ultimately learned from being on both sides of the price point equation is that the best approach is radically straightforward: buy what you think the person will genuinely appreciate, at a price that feels comfortable to you without causing financial strain. That’s it. No complex calculations, no desperate matching attempts.

If you can find something inexpensive that perfectly aligns with someone’s interests, that’s infinitely better than an expensive gift chosen with less insight. And if you’re on the receiving end of a gift that seems mismatched to your relationship – either too expensive or too cheap – try to focus on the intention rather than the price tag.

I keep a list on my phone of things people mention wanting or needing throughout the year. It’s saved me countless hours of pre-birthday panic buying and resulted in far more successful gifts. Price becomes secondary when you nail the actual thing they want.

The best gift I ever received was from Charlie three years ago – a battered second-hand copy of a childhood book I thought had gone out of print, which he’d spent months tracking down through specialist booksellers. Cost him about £8 plus postage. Meanwhile, the fancy juicer my parents got me the same Christmas (easily ten times the price) was used precisely twice before becoming an overqualified paperweight in our kitchen cupboard.

Maybe that’s the real gift equation: thoughtfulness multiplied by usefulness, divided by obligation, with price as just one small factor in a much more complicated emotional math. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go wrap my godson’s birthday present – a £12.99 dinosaur torch that makes realistic roaring sounds. His mum will probably hate me for the noise, but he’s going to lose his little mind over it. And really, isn’t that what gifting should be about?

My nephew Theo’s fifth birthday taught me a lesson I’ll never forget about children’s presents. I’d spent ages hunting for the perfect gift – eventually splashing out on this fancy remote-controlled dinosaur that roared, walked, and even responded to voice commands. Cost me a small fortune, but I was convinced it would make me the coolest aunt in history.

The party day arrived, and I watched with barely contained excitement as Theo unwrapped my gift. His initial reaction was everything I’d hoped for – wide eyes, gasping, immediate demands to get it out of the packaging. Success! Or so I thought.

Fast forward three weeks, and my sister Emily sent me a photo of Theo’s bedroom. There was my magnificent dinosaur, abandoned under a pile of clothes, one leg missing, batteries dead. Meanwhile, Theo was completely absorbed playing with the wooden train set my parents had given him for his third birthday, which he’d been steadily adding to for years.

“Bloody hell,” I remember thinking. “I’ve been doing this all wrong.”

That moment changed my entire approach to buying gifts for the little ones in my life. Instead of chasing that fleeting moment of “wow” when a child first tears off the wrapping paper, I started focusing on what I now call “growth gifts” – presents that evolve alongside the child, offering new possibilities as they develop.

Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the occasional splashy toy that delivers pure joy on the day. Those gifts definitely have their place! But I’ve found that the most treasured possessions in a child’s life – the ones that don’t end up forgotten at the bottom of the toy box after a fortnight – are usually those that can be used in increasingly sophisticated ways as they grow older.

Take building blocks, for instance. My goddaughter Poppy received a basic wooden block set when she was about 18 months old. Back then, she mostly just enjoyed knocking down towers that adults built for her (and occasionally trying to eat the smaller pieces, much to her mother’s horror). By three, she was building simple structures herself. At five, those same blocks became props in elaborate imaginary games where they transformed into castles, spaceships, or shops. Now, at eight, she’s using them alongside her coding toys to create obstacle courses for her programmable robot.

That’s seven years of play value from a single gift – pretty good investment, I’d say!

I’ve noticed these “growth gifts” tend to fall into several categories. There’s the open-ended creative stuff – your art supplies, building materials, and musical instruments. These have no fixed “right way” to use them, so children can engage with them differently as they develop.

My friend’s daughter Isabella received a child-sized ukulele for her fourth birthday. In the beginning, she mostly just enjoyed making noise with it (rather painful noise, if I’m honest). By six, she was learning simple chords. Now at ten, she’s properly playing songs and writing her own music. The instrument itself hasn’t changed, but her relationship with it has evolved dramatically.

Then there are what I call “expandable systems” – toys designed with collectible or additional components that add complexity over time. The classic example is LEGO, which can start with simple DUPLO for toddlers and eventually progress to complex technical sets for teenagers.

Charlie’s nephew Max started with a basic train set at three, which his parents and relatives have supplemented with new tracks, engines and accessories each birthday and Christmas. The layout has grown increasingly elaborate, and now at nine, he’s adding electrical components and creating intricate, multi-level railway systems. Each new addition breathes fresh life into the existing collection.

The key is finding gifts with “high ceilings” – even when a child starts with simple engagement, there’s plenty of room to grow into more complex play. Magic kits are brilliant for this. A five-year-old might enjoy relatively simple tricks with adult help, but the same kit can offer increasing challenges as they develop better dexterity and understanding.

Books are perhaps the ultimate growth gift. I remember my niece Sophie unwrapping “The Complete Winnie-the-Pooh” collection when she was just two. Initially, the gorgeous illustrations captivated her while her parents read simplified versions of the stories. As her comprehension improved, they read more complete chapters. By seven, she was reading them independently, discovering new layers of humor and meaning that had gone over her head before. Now at twelve, she still occasionally pulls them out, appreciating A.A. Milne’s wit on an entirely different level.

Of course, all this requires a bit more thought than just grabbing whatever flashing, beeping toy is being heavily marketed before Christmas. I’ve developed a mental checklist to help determine a gift’s growth potential:

Does it have multiple ways to play, or just one fixed function?
Can it be combined with other toys or materials the child already has?
Will it still be relevant when the child is 2-3 years older?
Does it allow for increasingly complex use as skills develop?
Is it durable enough to withstand years of play?

I absolutely learned this the hard way. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen into the trap of buying what I call “one-trick ponies” – toys that do one impressive thing but offer limited play possibilities. That dinosaur I mentioned? Classic example. Yes, it roared and walked, but once Theo had seen it do its thing a dozen times, there wasn’t much else to discover.

Compare that to the simple wooden construction set I gave him the following year. Four years on, and it’s still in regular use, though the creations have evolved from basic towers to elaborate marble runs and mechanical contraptions.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that the best growth gifts often don’t come with batteries. There are exceptions, of course – some tech toys have remarkable longevity if they’re designed with open-ended programming possibilities. But generally speaking, the less a toy does “by itself,” the more a child has to bring to it through imagination and creativity.

This doesn’t mean I’m totally against electronic toys – just that I’m pickier about which ones make the cut. My friend’s son received a basic electronic keyboard when he was four. While other noisy toys were quickly relegated to the charity shop pile (typically after parents couldn’t bear the repetitive sounds any longer), the keyboard remained because it offered new challenges as his abilities developed.

I’ve also become a massive fan of giving experiences rather than objects, particularly when they include some element that grows with the child. A membership to the local wildlife park might seem less exciting than a toy on the day, but it provides different experiences as the child’s interests and comprehension evolve. The three-year-old who was simply excited to see “big animals” becomes the seven-year-old fascinated by conservation efforts.

My sister recently enrolled Theo in a children’s cooking class that meets monthly. At first, he mostly enjoyed the sensory experience of mixing ingredients and, naturally, eating the results. Now he’s learning about measurements, chemistry, and global food cultures. The course adapts to the children’s developing capabilities, making it a gift that will last the entire year while teaching progressively more complex skills.

The tricky part, I’ve found, is that growth gifts don’t always deliver that dramatic “wow” moment when first unwrapped. They’re rarely the present that causes a child to leap around the room with excitement (though sometimes they surprise you). This can be a bit disappointing if you’re hoping for that theatrical reaction, especially if other gifts at the same party are generating more immediate enthusiasm.

I remember feeling a twinge of disappointment when my goddaughter unwrapped the art supplies and sketchbook I’d carefully selected for her seventh birthday. She politely thanked me before moving eagerly on to the flashing fairy wand from another guest. Six months later, however, her mum sent me photos of the incredible comic book she’d created using those same art supplies – now her favorite possession, used almost daily.

That’s the trade-off with growth gifts – they’re playing the long game. The immediate reaction might be more muted, but the lasting impact is typically much greater.

If you’re struggling to find the right balance, here’s a approach that’s worked well for me: pair a smaller “wow” gift with something that has long-term potential. The exciting item gives you that lovely moment of gift-giving satisfaction, while the growth gift quietly establishes itself as a future favorite.

For my nephew’s recent birthday, I gave him a Wolverine action figure he’d been coveting (immediate excitement) alongside a comprehensive origami kit with papers of increasing difficulty levels (long-term value). The action figure got the bigger reaction on the day, but two months later, his room is decorated with increasingly complex paper creations, while Wolverine has joined the pile of similar figures in the toy box.

I’ve also learned not to underestimate the value of giving children “real” things rather than toy versions. My friend’s nine-year-old daughter showed more sustained interest in a proper beginner’s camera than she ever did in toy versions. Yes, the real one was more expensive and required more supervision initially, but it offered room for genuine skill development rather than pretend play alone.

This approach sometimes means spending a bit more upfront, but I’ve found it actually saves money in the long run. A well-chosen £50 growth gift that provides years of engagement is better value than a series of £20 toys that each hold interest for just a few weeks.

That said, some of the best growth gifts I’ve given have been relatively inexpensive. A simple wooden chess set, a sturdy magnifying glass, or a proper sketchbook with quality pencils – none broke the bank, but all offered layers of possibility beyond the obvious.

I keep a little notebook of gift ideas that grow with children, jotting down observations when I notice something with staying power. The kids in my life have become accustomed to my questions about which toys they’re still playing with months after birthdays and Christmases. Their answers have shaped my gift-giving strategy more than any marketing campaign ever could.

So while I still enjoy seeing a child’s face light up when they unwrap a present, I’ve learned to find even more satisfaction in hearing, months or years later, that my gift has become a beloved possession, used in ways neither of us could have imagined at first. That’s the real magic of giving – not just the moment of exchange, but the lasting connection that grows over time, just like the children themselves.