The Whole Hogge With Jacqueline Hogge

THERE'S a radio ad playing on most national stations this weather featuring a clever husband who shares his wisdom on how to achieve the perfect Christmas. The answer, it seems, is to buy the wife a voucher for a facelift. Now I realise I'm no long a member of the married brigade but that ad, as annoying and sanctimonious as the guy is, makes me laugh out loud as I am pretty certain most women I know would punch their other halves straight in the kisser if said voucher was produced from under the tree Christmas morning. Unless of course there is an express request for such a gift and even then I'd caution against it. While us ladies do spend an inordinate amount of time and money searching for the elixir of youth in the form of lotions and potions, I don't think any of us would relish the prospect that the loves of our lives would suggest even a non-invasive procedure might be the way to our hearts. The key lies in preparation boys. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, as the timeless adage goes. Research is the vital tool and needs to be undertaken slightly earlier than Christmas eve morning, when you've realised for the 20th year in a row you've left present shopping to the last minute. Diamonds are most definitely a girl's best friend, but it's not as simple as a trip to Tiffany's - unless you plan on throwing in couple of plane tickets to the Big Apple so she can chose her own rock. Now that would definitely earn significant brownie points.  But with these recessionary times we're in, it still pays to consider what will make the love of your life smile, and believe me bigger is not always better, unless of course it comes in a legit Tiffany's box. But my experience of the present exchanging lark has proven that even when explicit instructions are given as to what would constitute the perfect present, some men out there invariably get it wrong. My own cringe worthy jewellery gift faux pas happened the Christmas after my daughter was born, when the ex decided I deserved an eternity ring.  So he trotted off and bought said fáinne, wrapping it as best he could, and handed it over Christmas morning with a matching dazzling smile. Unfortunately the reaction he got wasn't as sparkling. Don't get me wrong it was a beautiful ring, which I have subsequently lost, but that's not the worst part.  I wasn't able to disguise my disappointment, as apparently my face gives me away with every single emotion there is. It wasn't that I didn't like the ring, as I've said it was pretty, but I felt so hard done by as I hadn't been given the option of choosing it myself. Ungrateful mare, yes, but you see he had also taken the executive decision when choosing an engagement ring, and while it also was fabulous, I had always held out hope that I'd get to peruse trays upon trays of velvet encased diamonds at some point, as they do in the movies. Needless to say it was one of the last years my Christmas present amounted to a small box. But in my defence it wasn't only Christmas presents that led to tension in our house. He wasn't hectic at delivering the wow factor when it came to birthday presents either and before you roar obscenities at how much of a madam I am, please bear with me and all will be revealed. I'm known in my family for my fetish of boots, nothing kinky mind you, just the high heeled, knee length leather variety, which I realise as I write that does come across as a little racy, but you ladies know what I mean. Anyway, there was one particular pair I had my eyes on for weeks, salivating as I passed them in the shop window on my lunch break each day, as I convinced myself that the outlandish price tag could be justified if I could make savings elsewhere. Maybe walk the 26-mile round trip to work as opposed to overindulge with the diesel-thirsty car. I happened to mention this fabulous pair of burgundy boots to my beloved one evening and when he didn't pass out at the cost involved, he suggested he buy them for my birthday, which was fast approaching. Score, I thought, so I wasted no time in providing him with the necessary details, such as price, size, and colour and even went as far as providing ordnance survey co-ordinates of the shop's location, removing any chance of error or confusion. Lunch breaks became my own again as I knew I was soon to become the proud owner of such fabulous foot attire, and all was well with the world. That was until the morning of my birthday dawned, and with breakfast in bed came my present, which funnily enough didn't look big enough of a box to accommodate my precious boots. He either didn't pick up on the confused expression or he was just ignoring it, fully aware of the fact he hadn't fulfilled his part of the bargain, as when I tore apart the wrapping paper I discovered to my horror an Irish rugby jersey and a George Best biography. Stunned into silence I mumbled what I think was thank you and convinced myself he had hidden the boots downstairs for me to find later that morning. But after I had ransacked the house and failed to find anything resembling a shoe box I couldn't hold it in any longer and queried where exactly had the boot plan fallen awry. His response, wait for it, was that he had gone to the shop, inspected the boots but they weren't to his taste so he found himself gravitating to the nearest branch of Eason's instead.  How I didn't lynch him there and then I'll never know, but it did teach me a valuable lesson, apart from buying my own boots that is. Even with precise and detailed instructions some men are beyond useless when it comes to purchasing the perfect present. So for those of you who have yet to buy for the one you love this Christmas, please do not follow the advice of that irritating man on the radio ad, unless you want picture and no sound on Sunday. Instead, have a rummage through her jewellery box for inspiration or better still whisk her away for a day of indulgence at a spa somewhere. That way you get to go too. And if all else fails, Jo Malone may be pricey but she'll always raise an appreciative gasp of gratitude, even from an ungrateful wench like me.