Cavan Calling: I know very few men - in fact I can't think of one off the top of my head - who enjoy shopping for presents. It seems they want to dive into a shop and emerge with the first thing that is vaguely suitable.

Living in a family entirely composed of males, I have learned to be prepared for the inevitable moments when they announce that they have forgotten someone's birthday, or other important life event, and need me to help them out. For this very purpose I have an old Fortnum & Mason picnic basket in which I keep small all-purpose gifts. I also have a selection of greetings cards and wrapping paper.

Friends blame my desire to be prepared on the fact I am a Capricorn. They assure me that my star sign is at the root of all my neuroses.

But I like looking for presents. I particularly enjoy searching out books for people. Tony's daughter Cherie is a voracious reader, and our similar taste in fiction makes buying gifts much easier.

This Christmas I bought Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke, for her. The trouble was that, when I started to wrap it, I found myself faced with a moral dilemma. I have dropped a lot of heavy hints to my family about wanting this book for Christmas - as well as, incidentally, the Jenny Uglow book A Little History Of British Gardening.

What if, being typical men, neither Tony nor my sons picked up on my suggestions? Should I hang on to Cherie's copy, knowing then that I definitely had one? I am proud to say I eventually had enough strength of character to wrap the book up and send it to her.

It is a Christmas tradition in our house that Tony is dispatched to the post office with the Christmas parcels. This year he thought he would be able to avoid the responsibility by suggesting to me that, as Tony Blair was going to be in Belfast before Christmas, perhaps he could pick up the presents we had bought for his family.

I did point out that, on that particular trip, Tony would probably have quite a lot on his mind, and I couldn't really see collecting Christmas presents being on his agenda.

So my Tony was duly dispatched to the post office, giving him the opportunity, as it does every year, to complain mightily about the cost of postage. On his return home he had to sit down, for a very long time, with a mug of tea and the newspapers in order to recover from his fiscal ordeal.

I have decided to be confident the weather will improve enough by Christmas to be able to get out for some good long walks. I've told everyone to bring their walking boots. I remember, in my former life, a friend of mine would always assert: "Darling, one can never have too many shoes."

I think I need to amend that statement slightly: no household can ever have too many pairs of wellingtons.

I think boots will definitely be in order for watching a wild Blacklion Christmas tradition. At 12.30 p.m. sharp on Christmas Day an assortment of suitably mad men of this parish jump into Lough MacNean. The purpose of the exercise is to raise money for charity.

The lough is breath-snatchingly cold in August, so goodness knows what it will be like in the middle of winter. This is something I must see, especially as I now have a personal interest in the proceedings.

I recently attended our local general practice. There was queue of about half a dozen people, and while we were waiting Mary Perill, the practice receptionist, appeared from her office brandishing a sponsor form for her son Conor. Knowing she had a captive audience, she was able to garner support for him. Conor is, I think, 12, and at that age he may be forgiven for momentary lapses of sanity. It turns out, however, that our GP, Carroll O'Dolan, is also taking the plunge.

All of which, I feel, supports my hypothesis that all men have a defective gene that manifests itself in random acts of madness.

We're really looking forward to the festive season in our new home. The presents are bought, the cake has been baked (though not yet iced) and the ducks and ham ordered from the butcher in Blacklion. Now all that's needed is for my youngest son, Will, to arrive and decorate the tree. Then it really will be Christmas.