Sarah Vine: Pardon my French, but why, if women do all the work at Christmas, is Santa a sodding bloke?

With the possible exception of my friend Sebastian, who approaches the entire festive season with precision planning that would put some of the greatest strategic minds in history to shame, Christmas is mostly a woman’s work.

Present-shopping, tree-sourcing, decorating, food-buying, housecleaning, spare bed-making, child managing, granny-wrangling, teacher-gifting, soaking the turkey in a bucket of whatever Nigella says, remembering to cater for the inevitable vegan, checking the council website for revised rubbish collections – in the vast majority of families, those tasks (and endless more) fall to the lady of the house.

Blokes tend to focus more on the lunchtime drinking aspects of the festive period. As one friend said to me recently of her dear husband: “He’s basically p***** between now and new year.”

As for planning, I always remember my ex-husband enquiring vaguely, usually somewhere around teatime on December 24, what “we” had bought for the children.

I often wonder what would have happened if I had simply replied: “I don’t know – I thought you were sorting all that?”

(Actually, I know exactly what would have happened: the kids would have got hastily wrapped copies of whatever book he had been reading that week, which doesn’t sound so bad unless you happen to be a three-year-old finding volume two of Robert Caro’s epic four-volume biography of Lyndon B. Johnson in your stocking on Christmas morning, all 300 pages of the damn thing.)

But I digress. No doubt today, the shops will be full of bewildered males combing the shelves for the remnants of the last-minute festive rush, vaguely conscious in the back of their man-minds that perhaps that slightly dodgy-looking jar of home-made chutney they picked up at the office Christmas charity sale might not quite light up their beloved’s face in the intended manner on Christmas morning.

For those gentlemen about to sally forth to remedy this, just remember: items purchased at petrol stations don’t count, neither does food or drink – and do keep in mind that you are buying for your significant other, and not the charming young sales lady behind the counter, however persuasive she may be.

Also, wherever possible, try to steer clear of anything bearing the words “anti-ageing”, even if it is on a half-price special offer.

And don’t, whatever you do, mix your wife up with your mistress. One of the most unsatisfactory Christmases I remember was the year my father gave my mother a decidedly racy item that was very clearly intended for someone else. That was a frosty one, I can tell you. I’m half joking, of course (or am I?). Either way, I have a question. Given all this, why, if it’s not too impertinent to ask, is the Yuletide mascot, the magical figure revered by children worldwide, the one who cuts a swathe through the night sky and brings good cheer to all, a sodding bloke?

What has Father Christmas ever done to get that gig? Truly, why does he get to swan around with all his ho-ho-hos, soaking up all the attention and glory as though any of this magnificent yuletide largesse was somehow his doing?

Isn’t it time we got rid of the old fool and gave the credit to the person who really deserves it: Mother Christmas? Of course, some cultures do feature a woman in their festive celebrations.

In Italy, where I spent my childhood, we have a character called La Befana, who visits children on the eve of Epiphany to either reward the good ones with presents or punish the naughty ones with a lump of coal – very much like Father Christmas. We even leave out a small glass of something and a plate of biscuits for her. But there, the similarities end. Because instead of being celebrated as a benevolent bringer of joy, La Befana is a witch. That’s right, a proper witch with a hooked nose, warts, rotten teeth, obligatory cackle, and very much a figure to be feared and reviled.

And unlike Father Christmas, who gets to wear a glamorous fur trim and ride through the night sky in a chariot drawn by dashing reindeer, La Befana dresses in rags and rides a rickety old broomstick. Being a good housekeeper, she sweeps the floor before she leaves. Of course, she does! It”s a woman”s lot, you see: all the work, none of the glamour – or credit.

But don’t worry, ladies, the end is in sight. Just one more sleep, and then it’ll be over for another year. Until then, just keep taking the tablets. Oh, and a very merry Christmas to you all!