Nicer in Neice

In Sardinia last week, enjoying a French pedicure in the hotel's beauty parlour, I read a poem in praise of thongs by Peter Stringfellow in an English magazine, (in which he rhymed 'hymn' and 'string'), and my thoughts turned, for some reason, to my 3 teenage nieces whose birthdays all fall in October. I adore these girls: the youngest with her home grown wisdom and her milk and roses complexion, the middle child who combines frankness with an exciting degree of sophistication and the eldest, whose intelligent, natural poise, at sixteen, is really something to behold. Nothing is more fascinating to me than the inner world of the teenage girl. I love the things they know: 'Don't take any notice when he says that. It's just swimming pool talk.' And the things they don't know: 'I can't see the point of having a boyfriend unless you want to start a family.' None of these girls suffer fools. And they are all bargain crazy thinking nothing of a two hour coach journey to a distant retail outlet promising hefty discounts. When I sat them down seriously to find out what they wanted for their birthdays each told me in turn, 'Oh, you know, nice stuff.'

I'm good at nice stuff. I know where they sell it. I've even got quite a lot of it waiting downstairs in my pride-and-joy present cupboard. But suddenly none of the nice stuff I am familiar with seemed equal to my nieces. In the pedicurist's chair I felt a knot in my chest that I recognised as present panic. Present panic keeps me awake at night for most of December and at regular intervals throughout the year. I started to breathe uneasily. How could I find nice stuff that conveys I couldn't think more highly of them? That no-one could. Where do they sell that?

After an exhaustive search I presented the eldest girl with an 'out on the town' kit. Into a butter-soft, red leather handbag from Accessorize, I stowed a bubble-gum-pink address book from Smythson, a Chanel Jeans compact, featuring four shades of blue eyeshadow arranged like the pocket on a pair of denims, a small pink change purse from Penhaligons and an enamel scottie dog key ring. I wrapped everything in pink and powder blue crepe paper. This is a present I can give with pride - the Rolls Royce of teen gifts even, I thought. My niece agreed.

The youngest was easier than I expected also. For her I assembled a going to bed package. There was a half sized supersoft pink plaid wool blanket from the White Company with a pink and white striped velour robe, a white waffle weave sponge bag, a pink fleece baby hot water bottle, complete with appliqued white heart, and a pair of pink gingham coat hangers. I packed these items into a big white box with lilac tissue and tied it with ribbon. She too was delighted.

With the middle child, I didn't fare quite so well. A lover of make-up and all other kinds of enhancers, I assembled for her a beauty treasure trove stuffed with luxury cleansers and toners and moisturisers I had picked up from duty free. Nicely arranged in a huge pink and green plastic trunk, I imagined her lugging this gift round to her friends and imparting to them the vital lessons of beauty gravity i.e. what goes on must come off. I also enclosed three packs of Italian bubble gum in exotic flavours. She was perfectly happy with the skin care products but it was the gum she was mad for. I found myself apologising wildly and feeling a little ridiculous. The present was very slightly too grown up for her. Pointlessly expensive, it had not quite hit the spot, but I decided to be brave about it. I cuddled up to her. 'When it's Christmas maybe we can go out together, just you and me, and choose you something really special' I whispered in her ear. 'Whatever you like.'

'Thanks', she said kindly, her smile indicating that she understood quite how much all this means to me, 'I'd like that.'