Solemnly, Boris the Landlord handed a tatty old Santa hat around the assembled clientele of the Boilermaker's Arms, the company including The Scribbler, his colleague the fragrant women's editor Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), Doris "The Happy Medium" Thrope, Postman Parvez, Graham the Gasman, the venerable barmaid Daphne and all the rest of the motley crew. Each one of them dipped their hand into the hat and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

When everyone had taken a piece of paper, Boris returned the moth-eaten old hat back to his head. "There," he said. "We're all done."

Each one of the pub regulars unfolded the piece of paper and took a furtive look at it, then immediately glanced up to see if anyone was giving a giveaway look in their direction.

More than once, a member of the gang groaned upon opening their little note.

"That's that, then," said The Scribbler with finality. "The Boilermaker's Arms Annual Secret Santa is officially underway."

The Scribbler, although generally well-disposed to the festive season as a whole, did have a deep and abiding dislike for this Christmas perennial.

It wasn't that he objected to buying presents for others, and he did believe that Secret Santa, whereby everyone had to buy just one present for another member of the crew, was a good and economical way of ensuring everyone got a present but people didn't have to shell out for too many gifts.

It was just that he always ended up with duff pressies. Last year Graham the Gasman had presented him with a broken spanner, albeit with a pink bow around it. The year before that he'd got a batch of Jiffy bags with sub-standard stickum on them, rescued from the bin at the Post Office by Parvez. And the year before that, recalled The Scribbler with a shudder, Boris the Landlord had given him a small box containing some samples from his navel fluff collection.

"Who have you got this year?" said Thelma over a drink as they returned back to their table.

"I'm not telling you," he said. "It wouldn't be very secret, then, would it?"

"I wonder who's got you, then?" she said. The Scribbler scrutinised her. Either she was being entirely serious, which meant she hadn't picked his name, or she was playing a bluff, which meant she had.

"If you've got me, you still have to buy me a proper present as well," he pointed out.

"I haven't got you," she said, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "I've got Daphne. Again. The third year running. I'm sure she fixes it because she knows I get all those free samples of make-up and scent at work."

The Scribbler nodded and glanced over to Daphne, who was still managing to eke out last year's gift of a half-gallon bottle of Granny's Breath perfume.

As Thelma began to chatter about inconsequential things, he glanced at his piece of paper again. Barrington Thrope, the resting actor whom The Scribbler had recently unmasked as the nefarious Hobnail Malcolm, although the columnist had, as a token of true friendship, kept Thrope's alter ego a secret.

What did one buy for the man who claims to have everything? It would take some pondering. He had another week, anyway, until they all had to assemble their wrapped gifts in an old sack belonging to Postman Parvez and some ne'er-do-well who Boris had enticed with the price of a pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin would play Santa and hand out all the pressies. It always took place at the annual Boilermaker's Arms Christmas party, which The Scribbler always looked forward to immensely. And only one more week to go...