It's the thought that counts. This piece of gobbledygook has been used for centuries to excuse miserly spending at Christmas.
But I am one of the world's most generous, some would say mindless, spenders, and I use this homily wisely and well for all the right reasons.
This Christmas was no exception. I shopped with a careful and expert eye all year at the city's still-growing flotilla of op shops, finishing up with nearly enough classy product, some would say mindless junk, to open an op shop myself.
But my days behind a counter are over, and I chose instead to give a present from ''Sally'' - as in Sally Army though they weren't alone in providing me with great stuff, and it could just as easily have been ''Hosp'', ''Resto'' or ''Rumm'' - to family and close personal friends.
The limit for the thought that counted was $5, and with many of the items coming in well under that, you can see that not only were a number of humans well cared for, but I finished up with a huge bag of cash to spend on myself, as well.
This is called, and you will have seen the marketing muppet signs everywhere since mid-November, the Spirit Of Christmas.
I bought a lot of vodka.
Op shops are big business now.
Ten years ago the world appeared to be heading inexorably towards one shop in each city, probably called The Warehouse, with all other small shops dead on the vine, their unique frontages and insides consigned to early settlers museums.
But the op shops have stepped in, and their shelves now feature a staggering range of goods, many still in cellophane wrapping, never used, bought nine Christmases ago.
My thoughts that counted this year brought tears to many eyes.
What a surprise my brother's wife received when she opened a present that felt and looked like a stapler in a box and found instead a mint unopened travelling sewing machine, made in America, an absolute life-saver when trapped overseas in a hotel room with an outfit shedding hems and buttons before your eyes.
What a magnificent present this tiny thing was!
One Dollar!
I didn't want her husband to feel miffed, so while he doesn't play much golf after seriously injuring his left arm in a motorcycle accident many years ago, I would be lying if I said I didn't expect him to use his Golf Ball Monogrammer at least once in his life.
Golfers know that terrible things that can happen when two players, their brains contorted in catatonic confusion by the staggeringly low standard of golf they are playing, both wonder whose ball is whose as they stand in very long grass behind a tree.
How logical to have a giant black BAZZA inscribed on your Titleist Pro VI.
Two dollars, possibly used, but only once.
My sister went through a period this year of buying musical instruments, and has never had fewer than 30 cats, so a beautiful framed photo of a cat playing the piano hit enough bases for three softball games.
A gorgeous, gorgeous thing. Fifty cents. Shiny. Used.
Our daughter's husband, one of the finest cooks in the city, received a soup cup the size of Kim Dotcom's bottom, with a divine recipe for pumpkin soup in lovely lettering on the side, two dollars, slightly over-priced, while the daughter got one of those contraptions you stick on a half-guggled bottle of wine when the top has been thrown out because the cleaning up was done in a sloppy alcoholic daze the same night as the prestigious dinner party instead of the next morning.
Some friends benefited from my thoughtful largesse also, none more than one of the country's leading playwrights, to whom I gave Things Bogans Like, $2, which she subsequently described as pure genius.
She in turn gave me Amorous Liaisons by Sarah Mayberry, which contained the best line of fiction I have read all year - ''Max, we are in a MUSEUM!'' she gasped, slick with need.''
Possibly a typo, but it's the thought that counts.
• Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
