Gone are the days when Christmas shopping was a pleasure. When I would choose and buy gifts that I knew would be received with a smile and genuinely loved.

Gone are the days when I could make up my own mind about who was having what and usually be content in the knowledge that I had made the right choice.

Gone are the days when Christmas shopping didn’t bring me out in a cold sweat and leave me wandering around the shops for hours - as I did at the weekend - achieving (and buying) absolutely nothing.

And gone are the days when I would have Christmas all wrapped up by the end of October.

I never had any problems fulfilling my daughters’ wishes while they were growing up. I knew their likes and dislikes and felt confident choosing clothes and toys that I knew they would love. It was the same with my nephew. A few toys and games and he was happy.

A few years ago, my parents were easily pleased too - books for my dad and homeware for my mum.

All that has changed. At 19 and 17, my daughters are impossible to buy for. I see my youngest daughter every day, I wash and iron her clothing, so you would imagine I would know her tastes. Yet every time I pick out a top or jacket she wrinkles up her nose in disgust.

“You’ll have to come shopping with me,” I told her, to which she pulled an even worse face. I am inclined to buy her nothing at all.

Her sister, who returns home from a holiday with friends a few days before Christmas, says she will send me a list. It will be last minute and will throw up the same problems.

I hate the idea of money or vouchers and want to put at least a few presents under the tree, but apart from stocking fillers, I’m stumped. What do teenagers on the cusp of adulthood like? They spend all day, every day, online. Would a book ever be read, a game ever played?

My parents are no easier to buy for. They say they are too old for presents and keep stressing that they want to get rid of possessions not accumulate more. “We don’t want anything,” says my mum. “Not a thing - we’ve got too much already,” adds my dad.

With very particular tastes, my sister is a nightmare to shop for, and despite my pleading, she refuses to communicate to me what her ten-year-old son would like.

I’m so fed up with the whole expensive business, I might just put it all in the hands of Santa Claus and see what happens.