Late Friday afternoon while I was sitting on the sofa reading the newspapers, Riley snuggled in beside me, I heard my husband galumphing downstairs, my mind registering that he seemed to be in a hurry. And then, there he was, standing before me as I raised my eyes from the newspaper, holding out something and smiling broadly. Confessing he just couldn't wait. I was to consider it a preliminary.

Ah yes, my birthday. Fast approaching. End of the month, in fact. When I will be officially as it were, 78. So, what do you need to worry about gifting someone of my age with, someone who has everything she could ever want in emotional completion, material possessions? I'm well aware that as December draws near my husband frantically looks at advertisements, searching for inspiration for a birthday gift for me.

For my 40th birthday he had taken me to the Bay for their first-time-ever-advertised sale of Italian gold jewellery, and there he bought me a robust spiral-ornamented bracelet. In all those years it has never left my wrist. And over the years he has gradually supplemented that single bracelet with others, and usually as birthday gifts, in between rings and watches (how many watches does anyone need!) and whatever else might occur to him that might be pleasing to me.

It's useless for me to plead with him not to bother, since he rarely 'hears' such implausible statements offensive to his sense of the rightness of things. So on this occasion, even with all my experience I felt a little taken aback, uselessly stuttering it wasn't my birthday yet. But he's always been that way, unable to keep things from me, eager to present gifts, happy to anticipate my pleasure.

Within the tiny 'shopping bag' was a wide, flat box which I withdrew to find inside yet another gleaming gold bangle, to add to my collection. My husband beaming with satisfaction.