I received a two-tone, pale purple and eggplant purple bike. God I Felt Cool - The Christmas Gift I'll Never Forget

I have a relative who is famous – okay, infamous – for his terrible gifts. Now, I don't think being poor in gifts prevents you from being seen as a generous, kind, and selfless person. There are plenty of people in this world, I'm sure, who make great meals, listen kindly, and remember important dates, but when faced with a range of gifts, > will scream, fill their panties and dive headfirst into a jump, only to emerge two hours later with the collected pieces of your gift that year. I am almost certainly one of them. That doesn't make us bad people. It makes us a somewhat spicy addition to any big day.

A rather memorable Christmas, when I was a tall and rather lumpy 10-year-old, this parent gave me a pair of white woolen tights size XS. They barely reached my knees. So what, I hear you say. And exactly. So what? Children grow up so fast these days. White is a very flattering and easy to wear color. It's actually quite nice to look like you've wrapped both legs in a set of ill-fitting bandages and just need somewhere in the middle to store your bricks. A hanging white wool gusset that nearly cuts off the blood supply to your thighs is a lovely gift and thoughtful thought.

Don't let me sound mean. It was not my only gift that year. I was also lucky enough to receive a paperback copy of The Jungle Book with "Sketchley" written on the cover. Because I think it's actually very nice to know that your Christmas has, in some way, helped another person dry cleaning successfully.

And did they stop at two freebies? Not on your Nelly. The piece de resistance, the candle on my stollen, was a large sample jar (they had, I believe, once worked in a hospital) decorated with pictures of sunflowers, painted on glass. Yum yum yum yum yum.

That same year, my mother received something called a potato jar - a jar specifically for storing potatoes. I haven't seen many since, and that's really my downfall, as this little fellow was quite tall, made of terracotta, and had a gargoyle-like face on one side. On the contrary, it made me love potatoes even more.

As unlikely as it may seem, a year or two later my parents improved this selection . I woke up Christmas morning at my grandmother's house and found the end of a long rope on my bed. I had read enough Greek myths not to sit on my ass and carefully roll this thing up for another day. It was a quest. And so I followed the rope - all the way down the landing, down the stairs, down the main floor hallway, past the dog bowls and coat hooks, to the back yard. And there I saw it: a two-tone purple bike. They had taken it all apart and spray painted it themselves. Pale purple merging with eggplant. I was absolutely thrilled. At the time – I must have been around 11 or 12 – I had a second-hand white faux fur coat and a pair of purple DMs. Riding around town on this thing, I must have looked like a moon-faced Caucasian woman, a Prince lookalike for the under-16 niche market. But, god, I felt cool.

I've had plenty of beloved bikes since. Like lovers, homes and professions, they have characterized certain periods of my life. There was the drop-handle green Raleigh that my ex's dad found while working in someone's garage. It was designed for a 6ft 3in man and I rode it for years. I drove it to Hastings, despite the derailleur essentially eating halfway up a hill covered in Ukip posters. Then there was a sleek race bike that I dubbed Eric the Red that saw more action between my thighs in my early thirties than any man. I was driving Eric the Red the day I smashed the windshield of an undercover cop car - but that's another story. Today, I ride a black 1970s Raleigh—complete with basket and baby seat—that my boyfriend (now hubby) built for me as a wedding present. But this two-tone purple Christmas bike, the one that came into my life in the perfect way at the perfect time, was unforgettable.

As I face the thankless task of trying to find something to give my five-year-old son this Christmas, I'm tempted to look to my ancestors for inspiration. That's right: a two-tone potato storage unit, decorated with hospital-grade glass paint and padded with a pair of white XS cycling shorts. He will love it.