‘It’s such a good present I actually wanted to smash it to pieces – just purely out of spite’

I'm going to hold my hands up here and just say it. I have bought my wife some of the worst Christmas presents she has ever had in her life. But this year, I'm proud to say, the Rossmeister General has smashed it out of the actual ballpork.

“Oh! My! God!” Honor goes when she sees it. And while Honor wouldn’t exactly be stingy when it comes to dishing out the Oh! My! God!s, it’s obvious in this case that she means every single word of it.

I’m like, “Do you genuinely think?”

And she goes, “Dad, she is going to love it!”

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I'll tell you what it is – yeah, no, I made her a gingerbread house. And not just any old house either. It's, like, an exact replica of our house – as in, like, Honalee – made entirely out of – like I said – gingerbread, which happens to be one of her, like, all-time favourite things in terms of Christmas?

And here's the thing that makes it, like, a doubly special present. When I say I made it, I don't mean that I paid some local Mary Berry to throw it together for me. I mean I baked every single tasty inch of the thing myself – although I should give Nigella Lawson a shout-out, since I used the recipe from her Christmas cookbook.

I got an actual orchitect – we're talking Peter "Wingnut" Dolan, who played scrumhalf for Gonzaga back in the day – to advise me on how to build the thing and make it structurally sound. The dude even drew up orchitectural plans for it, which he handed to me, all rolled up, with a red bow on it, along with – get this – his invoice. I'll tell you something about dudes who went to Gonzaga – they know how to chorge by the billable hour and I'd actually be furious if I had any intention of paying the focker.

The house I've ended up with is humungous – we're talking, like, 4ft high and possibly 6ft wide? And it's incredibly detailed. I'm not patting myself on the back here, but I've even managed to recreate the two round towers with the witch's hat rooves, which were definitely the trickiest bit, although Wingnut's instructions were incredible. He really earned his money, even though he's not getting a focking cent out of me.

Then I plastered the outside of the thing, managing to mix icing that was the same shade of magnolia as the outer walls of the actual house, and the same shade of grey as the roof. And I put, like, gummy bears on it for the actual Christmas lights.

“Oh my God, you have, like, totally redeemed yourself after buying her that pressure cooker last year!” Honor goes.

Yeah, no, it's three days before Christmas and we're enjoying a bit of father-daughter time in the famous Dundrum Town Centre.

She goes, “It’s such a good present that I actually wanted to smash it to pieces – just purely out of spite.”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, thanks, Honor – that’s, em, a nice compliment all right.”

She can be very sweet sometimes.

"Here, Honor," I go, a thought suddenly occurring to me, "did I definitely, definitely lock the pantry?"

The reason I ask is because Brian, Johnny and Leo – the little focking animals – have been trying to get at it for the last, like, 24 hours, determined to, like, horse the thing before their mother even gets to see it.

“No, you didn’t lock the pantry,” Honor goes. “But I did – and I gave the key to Fionnuala.”

Yeah, no, the old dear is babysitting the kids for the afternoon.

I'm there, "And what did she do with it?"

“She put it inside her bra,” Honor goes.

I’m like, “Jesus – well, at least we know no one’s going in there for it. What are they doing today anyway?”

“Fionnuala’s showing them how to make Christmas cocktails,” Honor goes.

I end up laughing, because I get a sudden flashback to some of my own childhood Christmases. Yeah, no, I used to keep the Snowballs and the Boulevardiers and the Festive Negronis flowing until the old dear passed out, then I'd help myself to the key from the safe.

And that’s when a thought suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.

I’m like, “Honor”, already turning and heading for the cor pork, “we have to go”.

Honor’s like, “What the fock is wrong with you? I thought we were buying my Christmas presents.”

I’m there, “Honor”, feeling my face turn pale, “they’re going to wait until she’s plastered, then they’re going to steal the key”.

“They’re hordly going to take it out of her bra, Dad.”

“Don’t underestimate how much they love gingerbread, Honor.”

We make it back to Killiney in, like, I don't know how long, just that I break every red light and land speed record ever set on the way to the Vico Road.

I throw open the front door and – yeah, no – my worst fears are straight away realised. The old dear is passed out on the kitchen floor.

Honor – at the top of her voice – is calling out, “Johnny! Brian! Leo!”

I’m there, “Honor, you’re going to have to check her bra. I’m sort of traumatised from one or two childhood memories.”

But Honor – who’s a lot brighter than me – instead checks the door to the pantry. “It’s still locked!” she goes, the relief obvious in her voice.

I’m like, “Thank fock! Thank! Fock! So where are the boys?”

“Oh, no!” she goes, her face suddenly dorkening. “Oh my God, no!” and then she races outside to the back gorden.

I follow her, full of – I think it's a word? – treppodation?

Oh, Jesus, no! It turns out that they’ve, like, jemmied open the tiny window and managed to squeeze their bodies, mouse-like, through it. I peer through the glass and I can see them, sitting with their backs against the wall of the pantry, looking as sick as dogs, big, swollen bellies on them like three Christmas Buddhas.

There’s literally no sign of the gingerbread house. It’s, like, gone. There’s not even crumbs left. They’ve scoffed the lot. The walls. The roof. The towers. The gummy bear lights. Jesus, they’ve even eaten the thick cordboard base that I built it on.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Honor goes.

And I’m there, “Now I’m going to have to come up with a new present. Do you think your old dear would use a Thigh Master?”