It's blood and guts, he wants for Christmas, not bonhomie Reading books about 18th-century dissipation in theatrical London or Attila the Hun - some years ago, it was Genghis Khan's biography that Rudolf had to cart about endlessly on his sleigh - is a proven and really rather shrewd way of distancing onself from the domestic mêlée. Mummy might try to bury herself in Clare Balding's My Animals and Other Family, but that won't stop the ceaseless interruptions and demands, unless she hides in the loo, and even then the family will still hammer on the door for food or batteries or a lift somewhere. Daddies prefer their books to bristle with footnotes rather than feelings, and if there are diagrams of fortifications or phase maps of the Thirty Years" War, so much the better. These, they deem to be Proper Books. Thus, very unfairly, Daddy could be paddling in a sea of wrapping paper, festooned in tinsel and sitting on top of the remote control, but if he is immersed in Antony Beevor's D-Day: the Battle for Normandy or Artemis Cooper's biography of Patrick Leigh Fermor, the children know better than to disturb the alpha male and will tiptoe meekly away. So what to buy this weekend? Celebrity biographies are a Christmas regular, making Bradley Wiggins's autobiography a safe bet for a chap. Ditto London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games: The Official Commemorative Book. But set Miranda Hart's Is It Just Me? aside for your auntie, who, rest assured, will have read the whole Fifty Shades trilogy months ago. It's a slightly depressing truism that men (and boys) aren't drawn to books by women authors, hence JK Rowling's ambiguous nom de plume. Mantel's double Booker win, having taken the crown in 2009 for Wolf Hall, has gone some way to overturning preconceptions, but sad to say they still linger - the fear presumably being that they might suddenly be hijacked by unwelcome purple passages of touchy-feeliness. Still, I don't begrudge my own spouse's need for idle down time; amid the cacophony of Christmas, there's a lot to be said for a little literary R&R beside the relentless Now That's What I Call Carolling celebrations. Well, I didn't begrudge him until I checked his bedside table a few minutes ago. He currently has two bedtime books on the go. The first is Soldaten: On Fighting, Killing and Dying: The Secret Second World War Tapes of German POWs, and, presumably for light relief, the Dodecanese page-turner The Knights of Rhodes: Palace and City. Now it's your turn to roll your eyes in sympathy. I'm no intellectual slouch and I rarely shrink from a challenge. All the same, there are sound reasons why I will be buying my husband socks, rather than books, this Christmas. It's an odd paradox that half of the population is suffering from a lack of Vitamin D through under-exposure to the sun, while the rest endure chronic overexposure to just about everything else. This week we learnt that Facebook is flogging personal details about pregnancies posted online to advertisers and that (Facebook-owned) Instagram has said it reserves the right to sell users" details and even personal photos. And, of course, there have been yet more nice girls cavorting nude in a calendar. This time it's the Warwick University rowing team, who have stripped off in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support. The men's rowing team have also published a calendar, so that means it's not sexist, right? They all look hale and hearty, but I still feel mighty uncomfortable about this pathological addiction to sharing life's privacies with all and sundry; information, opinions, intimate photos. Am I a prude? Possibly, but to be honest, my toes curl not at the sight of the bare bodies but at the naked exhibitionism. Nigella has announced that she likes a human shield at Christmas - and not just to hide the unsightly bargain bins stuffed with her latest cookbook.She invites a well-bred stranger into her home so everyone's obliged to be on their best behaviour. Who might that be; the Archbishop of Canterbury? Ban Ki-moon? Pity the chump who pitches up thinking they have been chosen for their joie de vivre only to be handed a blue peacekeeping helmet and a body bag for the children's giblets. I'd have thought the calories alone would pin her family to the sofa. But if there's a risk of argy-bargy around the turkey (for by common consent, that is what Nigellissima is), let me offer my services. At home, Christmas lunch is Man's Business. I have no idea how the whole meal comes together, so I won't be judgmental when you start necking salted caramel martinis and massaging double cream into your muffins. No, really, I mean actual muffins. Anyway, all I'm saying, Nigella, is that I'm available for conflict resolution, in general - oh and food fights, in particular. The letters to Father Christmas have been written and posted up the chimney. Each is truly magnificent. The 10-year-old provided a Domesday scroll of must-haves and helpfully provided a 21st-century twist by listing the relevant shops, websites and Recommended Retail Prices. Now that she's all grown up, she wants explosive bath bombs, fancy hair tongs, hand cream, a DIY lip gloss kit and, if the elves have access to a cheeky offshore account, maybe a Fabergé egg and some new gloves. The four-year-old solemnly announced her heart's desires were "a Barbie and chewing gum." So chavvy, so cheap. I know Mummy's not supposed to have favourites, but does the same apply to Santa? Silver splitters is the new name for couples who part in their twilight years, with 66 per cent of divorces instigated by women. A friend's mother left her much older husband when she hit 65. She wanted to live a little after raising four children. At 78, he had no intention of going anywhere, but was bewildered by her departure. A year on, I asked another friend how he was coping. Oh, I can't bear to think about it. "The poor man must be depressed," I agreed. "No, he's internet dating and has hordes of women running after him," she responded. "I expect he's looking for companionship," I said consolingly. Good grief no, he wants sex. They all do.