Sali Hughes and her friend Julia Marcus
Julia I met Sal in the early 90s, when she landed in London from south Wales. She was in her teens and I was in my late 20s, and we bonded over a shared love of Madonna, Billy Wilder, Clinique lipsticks and rubbish catchphrases. She moved into my flat in Paddington about 27 years ago, and the stockings began. The first exchange would have definitely included an avocado or mango Body Shop body butter. My all-time favourite item from Sali was a Brenda from Beverly Hills 90210 action figure; we were obsessed with the show, and with Brenda in particular, so this was a massive score. It’s not about being grand and spendy. My biggest thrill is finding some gorgeous three-quid lip balm that has flown below her radar. That is the ultimate achievement.
Sali We exchange stockings in early December, but open them last thing on Christmas Day. My children know that my stocking from Auntie Julia (my eldest’s godmother) is to remain untouched until everyone else is snoozing in front of the telly. Then we’ll text each other and enjoy “our” moment.
We peel off the wrapping slowly, then have a full and grateful debrief on what we liked best, where the treasures were found, and laugh at the occasional duplicates. Often, the contents and its wrapping are themed: kitsch, music, the colour red. There’s always a mug (we’re both tea fanatics and exacting in our requirements). There’s always an unusual decoration or bauble. We enjoy the challenge of finding things the other hasn’t spotted (Julia is obsessed with discovering a lip product I don’t know about). I never go anywhere without keeping my eyes peeled for something quirky to surprise her with. Last year, I got her a beautiful tin of nappy rash ointment in Berlin.
The joy for me is in the bonding ritual. It’s a closeness we alone share, and the stockings reflect our changing lives, interests and circumstances. When one of us has been hard up, it’s never an issue. Life ebbs and flows, but our love for each other is constant, comforting and dependable.
Meera Sodha and her husband, Hugh
Meera When you start going out with someone, establishing the rules of engagement around Christmas is an important hurdle. Luckily, we started dating in January, so I had 11 months on the run-up before taking the plunge. We both splurged in that first year: he bought me a Paul McCarthy artist’s edition from the Whitechapel Gallery and I bought him a nice watch to replace his Casio F-12. Each year, we agree to tone it down. But, as November creeps into December, the nervous conversations start. I find him tricky to buy for; he doesn’t like to have many possessions, so I tend towards buying him experiences. We’ve agreed limits when it hasn’t felt appropriate to splash out, such as in the year we got married. That year, he printed a hundred photos from our five years together and stuck them in a notebook with little captions and in-jokes . It was perfect, but wildly antisocial, because I sat by the Christmas tree for half an hour laughing (and crying) by myself. I have a notebook of drawings: what my perfect suitcase might look like; what rooms my theoretical social club might have; clothes I’d like to wear. Last year, Hugh chose material from Liberty and asked me to design an outfit, which he then had made up. It will be hard to top that.
Hugh It’s the same pattern every year. I start relaxed, knowing that somewhere out there is something that will brighten her world and she will cherish for years to come. Then I slink into a cold sweat; I’ve got nowhere. However, I remain loyal to one rule: I must surprise her. My favourite present was the photo book I made a couple of years ago of our time together. Seeing her thumb through the pages, champagne glass in hand, smiling and giggling, is something I will never forget. Life is often a blur, but in that moment we both stopped and realised the sheer wonderfulness of our two worlds colliding in 2010.
Jess Cartner-Morley and her sister, Alice
Jess I have always thought that I enjoy buying presents for Alice mainly because she is a pure joy of a human being and she deserves them, plus a little bit because I am nice. Looking at this photo, it strikes me that there is probably another reason I love shopping for her: we look similar and we have a similar aesthetic. So, when I shop for her, I get to buy stuff I really like. I don’t remember buying presents for each other as children. I do remember identifying strongly with the big-sister badger in Russell Hoban’s A Birthday For Frances, who spends her pocket money on chocolate for her little sister’s birthday, but ends up eating it herself. But since we were teenagers, I have always loved spending money on her, even when I didn’t have any. I have no idea how I afforded the Stella McCartney dress I bought for her 21st. I’m fussy about clothes, funnily enough. Almost no one other than Alice would dare buy clothes for me sight unseen (and that’s the way I like it) but she never gets it wrong. Often, she buys me classic pieces: monogrammed pyjamas; for my 40th, a vintage art deco J on a gold chain. But her fashion taste is slightly more adventurous than mine. My birthday is in June and she once bought me a summer dress in chambray denim with a rope halter neck. When I opened it, I wasn’t sure at all. But that was eight years ago and I’ve never been on holiday without it.
Alice For my 21st, Jess gave me a Tiffany heart necklace – this was the 1990s – and a red, silk Stella McCartney slip dress. That set the bar for gifting between us. She is my favourite person to buy for, which is partly about showing how much I love her, but also because I know her taste. Because I am confident I will choose things she likes, shopping is exciting. It helps that she is a magpie, rather than a minimalist, so she is always excited by a new set of salt and pepper shakers or another insane tasselled earring. She’s the only adult I know who gets as overexcited as I do about Christmas.
