“My wife discovered a catalogue filled with goodies and, once she ordered something, that damned internet has been sending her Christmas ‘suggestions’ for months,” bemoans The Gadfly columnist ROBERT MACKLIN.

About this time each year, as Father Christmas raises his white bearded head, red cheeks glowing, I have a fantasy.

It’s that the famous French philosopher Rene Descartes turns to his royal patron Queen Christina, of Sweden, and announces his great discovery: “Je pense, donc je suis”. (I think, therefore I am.) 

Unimpressed, Christina responds: “I shop, therefore I am.”

I try to pretend it’s not happening. My ideal Christmas shopping is a quick dash to the Manuka Arcade the day before with a little list for the immediate family – wife, two sons, maybe partners and three lovely granddaughters. That’s several perfumes, two shirts, some nice French lippy and I’m outta there. 

I used to get cards as well, but despite my Prep 1 teacher’s repeated smacks with two rulers, I write left-handed down the page (not across) and my message gets messy. 

And these days the cards make noises. Some of them even play cheesy music off-key each time you open them. They are so elaborate. This year it wouldn’t surprise me if some rapper released a ghastly card poem on a Christmas theme:

Hey, dat Jesus in ‘d’manger; 

He lickin’ lamb juice, dat’s da danger. 

So I type something nice for each one on the computer then spend hours checking to make sure I’ve put the right message with the pressie. One awful year, I gave a bottle of Cointreau to a son and three pairs of men’s underpants to his fiancee (don’t families have long memories for the rare little mistakes of the paterfamilias?). 

My dear wife has an entirely different view. She is a natural born “giver”. She gets more fun out of Christmas than anyone I know. Nothing beats that look of surprised delight when they open her pressies and say: “Just what I wanted. How did you know?”

For her, Christmas planning begins in February. It has taken that long to decide just how to improve on last year’s effort and stop chuckling about the naughty son who gave his brother a joke tin pressie containing the worst smell in the history of the world. 

It didn’t matter that we were celebrating on the front deck, our neighbours on both sides complained and one of the girls nearly threw up… on the prawns!

Anyway, by May she’s making little noises about the charms of Christmas in July at Katoomba, which I have resisted manfully these several years and will continue to my dying breath. 

However, this year her arthritis has meant she hasn’t been able to do the usual expeditions through Canberra’s shops for that perfect present for everyone. But that’s a double-edged sword. The first clue was when she said: “I’m expecting a delivery today. You’re not to look at it.”

I was writing at the time and it drifted over my head. 

Not for long. Three days later it was the same formula, and two days after that… before I twigged. She’d discovered a catalogue filled with goodies and, once she’d ordered something, that damned internet had been sending her Christmas “suggestions” for months. 

They use fierce, little algorithms. They take note of what interests you and then spread a veritable banquet – a Swedish smorgasbord – of goodies before you. Who could resist? Well, I could. But they know that already.

No, no, their target is elsewhere and here’s the clue – they are all connected to Amazon! No wonder Jeff Bezos is one of the richest men in the world. How could he lose? He’s got Amazon, the mighty tribe of strong women who absolutely take their cue from Queen Christina.

“I shop, therefore I am!” 

robert@robertmacklin.com