“These articles are from a trade journal, The Gift Guide, for which I was a regular contributor, for five years, almost as long as I had my gift shop, “Juliana’s” in Wahroonga, from 1985 to 1990/91.  It was a time of great turmoil and growth for me.   Gerald and I were separated during that time, he had moved to Melbourne with IBM, and I experienced life as a single mother.   I had very supportive parents living close by, who were wonderful grandparents to Joshua, picking him up from school, supervising his homework, and looking after him when he was sick, as my working hours were sometimes long.  

 

It’s been interesting to look back at the young woman I was then.   I’ve cringed and I’ve laughed, remembering what was going on in my life then.  I was in my late thirties (I turned forty a year or two before I sold the shop) – and just a few months later, I bought another business Dynamic Demo’s, a demonstration company, which I had for a few years.   In my second year, I asked Gerald’s sister, Verna Parker, to become a partner in the business. Our personalities and our skills complemented each other well, and we very well worked as a team, and became very close friends, something I remember with gratitude and happiness today.

 

So much water under the bridge.

 

Thank you Catherine and Andy Hutchinson for turning this writing, straight from the magazine, into Word Documents for me.   Bless you both.”

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THOSE of you who rashly ignored the warning in my previous column about Santa sneaking up on us will now be shaking their heads soulfully and wailing “Oh, I WISH I had listened to Emily . .

No need for bouquets Ladies and Gentlemen, it's just an infallible intuition, and I get it right every year. Christmas falls on December 25.

At least, that is when it is SUPPOSED to occur, but in fact, Christmas starts earlier every year.

When I had my annual February sale, there were several superefficient, no-nonsense types, complete with a LIST mind you, buying Christmas presents six weeks after giving the last lot away. (They store them in mothballs.)

This may be a terribly sensible plan-your-year-ahead type approach (these ladies, I suspect, colour co-ordinate their pegs on the washing line . . .), but for me it steals the spontaneous joy of giving.

Okay, be picky then—WE don’t have the spontaneous joy of Christmas after ordering Christmas stock since June, but at least the customers should!

All that stuff like “It’s too expensive but what the hell” and "It’s madness, but Christmas comes but once a year” has been categorised into neat little compartments.

Give me the soul-stirring, till-ringing reckless approach every time.

CHRISTMAS invariably brings out the deadly, determined-to-destroy-your-bonhomie type of customer.

Depending on who you work with however, there can still be lots of fun, even if you have to stagger to the stock room for a swig of the sherry and a cleansing string of expletives occasionally.

The special person I work with is hard-working, supportive, and my best friend. She is the one who experiences it all with me, who makes the good days better for her laughter, and the bad days bearable for her wisdom.

The retailer’s Christmas is reminiscent of childbirth. Unless you're actually there, it’s hard to explain to an outsider just how appalling it can be.

One’s sympathetic but uncomprehending spouse can hardly be expected to appreciate how piggish Mrs Jones really was. The punch lines aren’t nearly so funny. Little happenings aren’t little anymore, just petty.

I hope you all have someone like my friend to work with.

I HAVE been hard at work on a project that would schedule all the school final assemblies, concerts, speech nights, prize giving days and swimming galas in JULY, so as to free December evenings for restocking the shelves and sleeping.

When you fall through the door at 7 pm looking like Phyllis Diller, and are expected at the school half an hour later (having flung a meal on the table in between), it’s an exceptional person who can arrive looking like the supercool, glamorous, unharassed mums who are obviously FAR better organised than you.

(These are the Enemy who bought their Christmas presents in the February sale, smugly wrapped them in August with paper sensibly saved from last year, boiled their puddings in September, and remembered to have their legs waxed before summer arrived.)

And then we get The Holidays. The Holidays are Torture of the Worst Kind for working parents. The Holidays breed every year and get more numerous.

Will somebody please invent a computer package that organises day camps, overnight stays, dental appointments and a fridge full of food to help us out?

Will we ever be able to repay the loving, supportive friends and family who feed, bathe, and taxi our offspring around whilst we are INTO Christmas?

100 GIFTGUIDE

True grit friends who continue to love us despite repeated neglects, and unsatisfactory phone calls. (“Hello Emily?'—Can’t talk now, very busy—Are you still alive?’—‘Yes thanks, you?— “Yes’—Is my child still alive?—‘Yes”).

Friends who deserve all the champange, flowers, dihners and love that we should shower upon them when Things Are Not So Busy.

I WAS wildly impressed when a well-known charming wholesaler called on me recently, selling beautiful Christmas decorations.

He wheeled in a large cabin trunk affair, upright and on wheels, which cleverly opened out into sections, displaying all the wares to perfection for me to see and touch. None of those blurred photographs in bulky albums for this man.

Whilst I ooh-ed and aah-ed like a child under the Christmas tree, no doubt carried away with enthusiasm, this clever man whipped out a tiny computer and punched in my order, murmuring terribly efficient things like "You’ve just bought the last dozen of those” and “The total sales tax is this”.

I was so bowled over by this vivid demonstration of computerisation in my business that I dashed out and enrolled in a computer course The truth WILL out. I actually HAVE a computer. It sits menacingly in the corner.

It has a great compatibility with my son who does intelligent, incomprehensible things with it, and who, at age 9, has loftily informed me that I could have all my stock computerised, thereby avoiding the dreaded Keep-Away-From-Mum-This-Week-lts-Annual-Stocktaking.

He points out in his innocent, childish way (?) that it would only take me 10 minutes each night to punch in the day’s sales.

So once I have this computer course under my belt, I suspect that I will be inundated with lucrative job offers from the likes of IBM and ICL. In which case I won’t be writing this column anymore.

SOME people are millionaires. This may not be a revelation to you, but millionaires have children, who spend money like millionaires’ children.

One rainy day recently, a 12-year-old boy squelched into my shop dripping puddles and money. He was on his way home from school, and was buying Christmas gifts for his parents.

He knew exactly what he wanted for his Mum (she is a regular customer) and nonchalantly paid $50 for the gift.

Feeling frightfully anxious about his large purchase, I impressed upon him that if his parents were unhappy about it, he could get his money back.

He then produced another $50 from his pocket, and bought a handsome Italian frame for his father. Wow!

My own son earns $2 a week pocket money. Naturally, I have not told him this story.

YOU have, no doubt, like me, spent endless sleepless nights pondering the decision-making process of customers. (Of COURSE you have . . .)

Librans are supposed to be the worst offenders. They have to balance the scales you see.

Perhaps the gift shops of Australia are patronised by Librans. How does any intelligent human being warrant spending 35 minutes choosing a gift for $7.50?

Is their (my) time so valueless that they can afford to browse endlessly, wracked with indecision over two items identical in every way bar the trim at the edge?

Or how about a 10 minute dissertation on the pros and cons of a 50 cent card, one with one cat on it, the other with TWO cats on it?

Heavens above, it’s hard to remain INTERESTED when your every instinct wants to shove it up their left nostril.

A SUBURBAN retailer describes the day-by-day woes—and joys—of selling giftware in Australia

The customers who say “You’ve no IDEA how hard it is to choose” should all be invited to the next Trade Fair and be bombarded with 400 wholesalers and thousands of choices.

AH, the gift fair. Why is the food so consistently DREARY at the trade fairs? Limp lettuce leaves, dry quiche, white bread sandwiches and carrot cake minus the carrots—WHY? It’s enough to make you want to drown your sorrows in a large carafe of wine before heading back into the Lion's Den.

On the plus side, there are smart wholesalers who Do It Right. We often go to the Open Nights, which are a great idea for the shop-bound retailers. Hard work for the wholesalers, but we always find these monthly events rather festive.

We also know who provides the best pate, cheese, bikkies and wine. (I shall very soon be printing a Who’s Who of suppliers and their nibblies.)

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to view your stock leisurely without the Kamikaze Pilot tactics necessary at the Fairs. And thanks for the great food!

OH, the irony of it. Here I am with a beautifully stocked shop bursting at the seams with Christmas delights, and my own gift list looks like this:

Son: A large and expensive box of plastic bits, euphemistically called a “transformer”.

Husband: Unobtainable books and records. A golf putter. Mother: Bowling accessories.

Father: A drill clamp, dowel jig, and a flexible shaft.

Best Friend: Antique ear rings.

Etc etc etc . . . all unavailable from my shop.

To be fair, I sometimes feel a trifle uncomfortable giving gifts from my shop, almost as if I haven’t travelled far enough, braved the crowds long enough, or feverishly contemplated often enough.

My family and friends feel stumped as to what to give me, believing that I can get most things for myself anyway.

I hasten to remind them that I love good champagne, chocolates, records, lingerie, books and the pleasure of their company. Do you feel this way?

Whatever you decide to give this Christmas, and whatever you are lucky enough to receive, I wish you the joy of a full cash register. The magic of ever-emptying shelves. And the strength to survive the onslaught long enough to savour the happiness of your loved ones gathered around the turkey you were crazy enough to insist on cooking.

And may 1987 be an especially happy year for all of us.