I got my first Christmas present this week. It's very nicely wrapped but I won't be opening it until December 25.

I'm certain that when I do I won't be disappointed.

How can I be so sure? Because I bought this particular present myself - for myself.

It's not that people don't buy me gifts (not as much as I'd like, it's true) but this was something I specifically wanted, a little treat that didn't cost much money but will allow me a half hour of glorious self indulgence on Christmas Day.

My present to me is a box of my favourite liqueur chocolates. I do not intend to share them with anyone.

Instead I shall be gratifyingly greedy in the privacy of my bedroom when my guests have gone home.

What about The Mother? Ah, yes, what about The Mother? Now there we have a slight problem. I didn't intend that she should see my present but she spotted the festive wrapping paper and immediately wanted to know what was inside.

I could have told her it was a shrunken head or a jar of hot air. Better still, I could have told her not to be nosy and she'd have assumed it was something for her. Instead I was honest. A mistake.

"Chocolates ... and all for me," I said.

"How selfish!" she said. "Christmas is a time for giving, for thinking of others. It isn't the time for buying yourself presents."

"Why not?" I said. "Chocolates are what I want and you never buy me chocolates. You always tell me chocolates aren't good for me."

"Because you're always on a diet," she said. "But if it's chocolates you want, you shall have them."

"Don't want them now, I've already got some, thank you very much," I told her.

At the weekend I glanced in The Mother's bedroom and saw a small festively wrapped package on the dressing table.

"Early Christmas present?" I asked. "I'm surprised it's still unopened. You usually open everything the minute it arrives."

"There's no need - I know what's in it," she replied. "It's something I've bought for myself, something you never buy me, something you're always saying is bad for me ... "

I knew, of course. "How many?" I said.

"Two hundred - and a new lighter," she said smugly.

On Monday she discovered her Christmas ciggies had "disappeared" (well, how could I resist the challenge?).

"Where are they then?" she said crossly.

"Well," I said, "you're not going to believe this but they've been confiscated by some fat old chap in a red suit who popped down the chimney last night."

"Bah, humbug!" said The Mother - or words to that effect.

LAST week in this column I told you about my obsession with finding bargains in charity shops and those irresistible two-for-one grocery offers.

But I must admit I've never come across the sort of bargain a reader of The Argus has told me about.

A couple of years ago he and his wife decided to buy a burial plot in a Brighton cemetery.

As they had enjoyed a long and happy marriage they wanted a double plot so that they could be buried together at the end of their lives.

Unfortunately, no suitable plots were available but they were asked to consider two single, adjacent plots, where they might RIP at close quarters for eternity.

As an incentive, they were made a rather special offer. "If you buy one plot now, you can have the second half price," they were told.

Now that's what I call a bargain to die for!