The sound of ripping wrapping paper on Christmas morning once filled me with joy, accompanied as it inevitably was by the sound of children’s laughter. I’m a giver, not a taker, and before my children grew up and left home, and I divorced and remarried, I’d relish those cosy mornings and grin right through to the new year remembering the looks on their little faces as Santa delivered on their requests.

But now it’s just me and my wife, and jingle bells have become jangled nerves, because she is the world’s worst present-receiver and my efforts to bring her festive joy are doomed to failure. She very rarely likes anything I buy her, despite my best efforts. Over the 15 Christmas mornings we’ve spent together I estimate to have had a 90 per cent failure rate. Most gifts end up unused or returned. And it is not because I’m a terrible gift buyer. Even fail-safes fail. Expensive scented candle? “Smells like toilet cleaner,” she’ll sniff. Belgian chocolates? “I’m trying to cut down on sugar.” The issue is not my present-buying acumen. It is my wife’s pickiness.

After years of mutual disappointment I now get detailed instructions as to what to buy her, accompanied by handy links to the relevant websites. But, like a puppy that gets kicked by its master only to return for more, every year I make the mistake of going “off-piste” and buy some surprises.

Last year’s designer dressing gown was “the wrong material”; the year before the pearl earrings were “too droopy”, and the Norwegian cruise I booked for the first Christmas after we married was on “the wrong boat… too small”.

It has been a steep learning curve. Last year, I spotted an empty bottle of Jo Malone on her dresser and bought her the exact same cologne, nicely wrapped and boxed. I can’t go wrong, I thought to myself. She opened it, thanked me and asked if she could change it for a fragrance she said she liked more.

In the shop, when the sales assistant asked if there was anything wrong with the bottle, I bowed my head and confessed: “I made a schoolboy error. I used my initiative.”

And I learned early on never to attempt gifting lingerie. One memorable year, when the fireworks were still going off in our relationship, I spent £200 on French underwear in an exclusive Covent Garden boutique for a naughty festive treat. The women in the office commended me on my bravery when I returned, bag in hand and red-faced from one of the most eye-opening shopping trips I’d ever been on. But there were no thrills from the frills on Christmas morning. My wife was unimpressed and asked if I’d kept the receipt. I now include gift receipts in all presents, even the ones she asks for, just in case she changes her mind.

I used to get upset and take it personally. When I was young, I was taught to always accept gifts gratefully, even when I didn’t like them, so as not to offend. But over the years I’ve realised it’s not me, it’s her. The vast majority of presents she gets from anyone – not just me – are consigned to the regift cupboard. She now writes notes on each item, so she can remember who they came from to avoid making the mistake of giving someone back the present they bought her the previous year.

In her defence, my wife is fully aware of her fussy foibles and apologises, then explains that I shouldn’t waste my money – and that no one should. Indeed, friends and family are discouraged from buying her anything.

“You know what I’m like,” she laughs.

But I know if we all followed her advice, and there were no gifts under the tree on Christmas morning for her, she’d be disappointed. Maybe this year it’ll just have to be Amazon vouchers.

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