Ah, Secret Santy. A relatively new tradition designed to reduce the number of gifts we buy at Christmas particularly among our work colleagues. But I’m questioning this. I mean how many of us went broke buying for all our work colleagues in years gone by? Didn’t we all just go out for a drink with work friends?

Secret Santy was sold as a bit of craic, a way to bring work colleagues together. But for many who are busy, trying to complete end of year work deadlines while also baking, cleaning, buying decorations etc it’s just another item on the already long to-do list.

It kicks off in late-November when you randomly (is it really random?) pick who you will be buying a gift for. You open the little piece of paper and read Tim in accounts. Who is Tim in accounts? Have I ever met him? Do I even know what he looks like?

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You succumb to picking something from the rack of novelty socks and ties. You’ve gone over the €10 limit but as you discovered last year, so does everyone else. You can still remember the mortification seeing colleagues open gifts that unlike the one you bought, cost way more than €10.

As a woman I know that the gifts I’ll receive will be something, anything with a perfume. Ah yes the smellies. There are smelly candles, bath bombs, hand cream, gift sets etc.

Now while there’s nothing wrong with a nice smelly candle, by Stephen’s Day you could light up half the parish. Trust me, you can get very nauseated walking through the house filled with a mix of vanilla, clean cotton and lavender.

The buying of smellies for women seems to be a get-out-of-jail-free card for men. It’s as if the entire male population got together and decided that “something that smells nice” would cover all bases. In fairness, most gifts aimed at them are funny ties, socks or mugs.

Then it’s Christmas week and the last task before the Christmas party is the gift exchange. Mariah Carey is singing away while we all pretend to be both surprised and delighted with our gifts.

The buying of smellies for women seems to be a get-out-of-jail-free card for men. It’s as if the entire male population got together and decided that “something that smells nice” would cover all bases

There’s always one person who has gone wildly over the limit and one who clearly picked up a few scratch cards from the petrol station. There’s the overachiever who has made a hamper of homemade goods worthy of Darina Allen and the one who completely forgot and is busy trying to re-wrap their own gift.

Someone gets a bottle of wine, Tim gets his socks and tie, and you? You get another candle – this one labelled ‘Peaceful Nights’.

Of course, not everyone has a Secret Santy. Some work from home, where the only colleague is the kettle. Others are self-employed or on the farm, where the cows don’t appreciate a nicely wrapped bath bomb.

And if you’re one of those, you might think you’ve escaped the madness. But don’t be fooled – sooner or later, someone will rope you into one.

By mid-December you have been sucked into the vortex of the Secret Santy shopping spiral – a unique exercise in guesswork, guilt, and glitter. You’ll soon need a spreadsheet to keep track of who you’re buying for, the spending limit for that group, and the date and time for exchange.

And yet, for all my moaning, there’s something kind about it too.

In between the panic and the perfume, Secret Santy is a small reminder that we’re part of something – even if it’s just a group chat full of people asking are we all sticking to the spending limit this year. I’m conscious too that these may be the only gifts some people get.

Instead of saying slán to Secret Santy, I need to remember that, it’s not really about the gifts. It’s about connection – even if that connection comes with glitter, awkward small talk, and the faint aroma of vanilla.

So here’s to Secret Santy – the great leveller of workplaces, WhatsApp groups and families.

Whether you’re unwrapping a candle, a comedy mug, or hoping to reveal a fortune on a scratch card, know that somewhere out there, Tim in accounts, is probably doing the same.