The Year We Stopped Buying Christmas Presents for Each Other's Kids — and Nobody Fell Out

There is a particular kind of cupboard in a British family home. It sits just off the kitchen, or under the stairs, and it is full of plastic. Not the good plastic. The other plastic: the £8 craft kit from a school friend's mum, the mini unicorn set from a birthday party, the novelty bath bomb shaped like a reindeer that came in a gift bag in December 2024 and is still, somehow, in the house.

By the time October half-term rolled around this year, I counted seven unopened boxes of the stuff. Seven. And I had bought at least four of them myself, for other people's children, because that is what we do. We buy a small thing, wrap it, hand it over at a pub lunch, and everyone says thank you and means it about 60 per cent. Then the thing goes home and joins the cupboard.

So this year I did something slightly awkward. I asked four families — close friends, the kind we do Christmas drinks with and whose kids have grown up alongside mine — whether we could all stop buying presents for each other's children.

The message I sent (after three rewrites)

I am not naturally brave in a group chat. I drafted it four times. Version one was too blunt ("Shall we just not?"). Version two was too apologetic and made it sound as if we were skint. Version three was a PowerPoint. Version four, the one I actually sent, was this:

"Random thought before the Christmas madness starts — would anyone be up for a no-gift agreement for the kids this year? Nothing against presents, I just looked at our cupboard and realised we're all buying the same £10 things on rotation. Totally fine to say no. I'm suggesting it because I'd rather spend the money on a takeaway with you lot in January, honestly."

Then I put my phone face down and made a cup of tea.

The replies, honestly

One friend replied within ninety seconds: "THANK GOD." She had been thinking the same thing for two years and hadn't wanted to say it first.

One went quiet for a day. When she came back, she asked, gently, whether we were okay financially. I had to explain that we were fine — this wasn't a crisis measure, it was a clutter-and-obligation measure. That was a useful reminder: a no-gift pact can land as a coded message about money if you aren't clear.

One said yes but admitted she felt a bit sad. She likes choosing little presents. That was fair, too. We agreed she could still do a small book for each child if she wanted, and nobody would police it. The point was removing the obligation, not the joy.

The fourth said, "Only if we still do the adults' Secret Santa." Reader, we did not do the adults' Secret Santa. We went to the pub instead.

What replaces the £10 toy

This is the bit people get stuck on. If you take away the present, what is left? In our case, quite a lot, and none of it wrapped.

We booked one shared Saturday in December: a walk, a chip shop, and a muddy hour in a park with a flask of hot chocolate. Total cost for our family: about £14. Previous years, the four-family gift swap had cost us roughly £40 on children's presents alone, plus cards, plus the extra wrapping paper, plus the bottle of wine we took to each house because turning up empty-handed felt rude.

One family suggested a book swap instead of buying new — each child brings one they've finished and takes one home. That worked brilliantly. Another did a batch of biscuits with her kids and handed them out in paper bags. It was the least expensive thing anyone gave and the only one that got eaten.

And some families did nothing at all. That was the real test of the pact, and honestly, it was fine.

The Boxing Day audit

I am not going to pretend this transformed our Christmas. The kids still got plenty. Father Christmas still came. But by Boxing Day, three things had changed.

First, the cupboard. There was no new layer of unopened plastic. The seven boxes from last year are still there, by the way. I am not a minimalist; I am just a woman who has finally noticed a pattern.

Second, the bank balance. We spent less in December than in any year since 2021. Not dramatically less, but enough that January didn't feel like a punishment.

Third, and this is the bit I didn't expect: the friendships felt easier. One friend told me on the 27th that she had been dreading the gift-buying part of our meet-up for years. She thought everyone else loved it. Four adults, all quietly buying £10 gifts none of us needed, because nobody wanted to be the one to say it out loud.

What I'd do differently

Say it earlier. October is fine; November is late. And be specific about what you're proposing. "No gifts for kids, adults optional, no judgement if you'd rather not" is clearer than a vague suggestion that everyone has to interpret.

Also, don't call it a pact if you can help it. It sounds like a secret society. It is just a conversation, and you are allowed to have it.

We will probably do it again in 2026. Maybe someone will bring a book. Maybe someone will bring biscuits. Either way, I'd rather have the chip-shop walk than another unicorn bath bomb. And I think the cupboard agrees.