Of course I'd been fronting up to strange men in shopping centres at random times for years. For research purposes, thanks. Purely professional.

But walking up to random men in shopping centres with a specific purpose at Christmas time had its genesis in 2009 with a man called Wes. We'll get back to Wes.

It's a tradition of mine, while Mariah Carey squawks overhead, in the same way that putting a little clip-on toy Garfield cat at the top of my Christmas tree, rather than an angel or a star, is another of my strongly-held traditions, regardless of whether the rest of the world catches up or not.

Once Garfield was clipped to the end of each of my sons' cribs in hospital after they were born, so that I could tell my plump screeching baby from his near neighbours in the nursery (this was, of course, back in the day when maternity wards had nurseries and you parked your babies there at night), there was no way he (Garfield, not the plump baby) was going to end up as a dog's chew toy, or in a St Vincent de Paul bag.

So clip-on Garfield sits at the top of the tree each year and spends the other 11 months or so in a box with tinsel and lights, waiting for the glory time.

Or there's the other Christmas traditions that have become firm favourites of mine over the past few years - of not having the family Christmas at my house, but graciously presiding over the hours of washing up required for our family Christmases at whichever sibling has volunteered/been pressured to hold it at his or her place.

For years I played Yuletide host, which is no small thing in our family. I'm the eldest of 11 so the family Christmas is more like a small village gathering, except that small villages tend to gather in community halls rather than suburban homes.

Advertisements for Christmas, where everyone wears cream, the air is glowing golden, and teeth are white, gleaming, straight and on display, tend to cap gatherings at 10 or 12 for good reason. When you've got more than 40 adults and children at your Christmas gathering, which is not uncommon in our case, things tend to look more... chaotic and out of control.

It's loud and long and hugely enjoyable at our place - kids in the pool, the traditional Christmas Day family tackle volleyball festival, my sister's cakes and pass-the-baby (because someone's always got a baby in my extended family).

But for the past few years I've started a new tradition - of walking out of my house on Christmas morning, enjoying a loud, long and hugely enjoyable Christmas Day at relatives' houses, and then leaving once the washing up's done to return to my clean, quiet house where Garfield sits atop the Christmas tree.

That's my newest Christmas tradition - sprawling on the lounge on Christmas night with a pot of tea, a piece of fruit cake and a good movie. Peace on earth and goodwill to all, and all that - as long as nobody steps past the front gate.

Those are the traditions I uphold. And so back to the shopping centre and strange men.

As I said, I first started talking to men doing the Christmas shopping back in 2009, when I noticed how many of them were sitting guarding piles of shopping bags, sleeping on lounges, or just standing, waiting.

I couldn't help myself. I can't remember who I spoke with first, but after half an hour of taking note of the number of men, and chatting with a few of them, I saw Wes, 83, standing with his back against a shop window, holding his shopping bags, watching the crowds rush by.

As I wrote at the time, he was wearing his best shopping centre gear - a short-sleeved shirt in muted tones, tan shorts, knee-high socks and shiny black shoes.

And he was a hoot.

I asked if he'd misplaced his wife, or wanted someone to take him by the hand and show him the way out. Neither, he said.

"I was told to wait here while my wife went into this shop and I wasn't to run amok and cause a disturbance," he said.

After a decade of talking to men in shopping centres at Christmas time I have established, without a shadow of a doubt, that they're so bored they'll talk to anyone, even a woman saying she's a journalist without providing any proof, and invariably the chats are very funny.

The good thing about traditions you start yourself is that you can change them at will.

So to celebrate the 10th anniversary of chatting with men doing the Christmas shopping I introduced a new tradition last weekend - taking my toddler granddaughter with me.

For if ever there's a winning combo it's bored grandfathers wanting to be distracted and cute 15-month-old babies who are thrilled to be on their own two feet exploring whatever comes their way.

"Stand-off," said one elderly gent when the baby lurched in his direction like a tiny drunk in pink overalls, before pulling up short in front of the trolley he was pushing.

She stared at him. He smiled at her. Around us people smiled and told the elderly gent he'd met his match.

"I've got six grandchildren and one great grandchild," he said, and we compared notes until my granddaughter headed off in the direction of food.

Another elderly gent waiting patiently on a bench amid a sea of shopping bags was delighted when the baby veered his way, and even more delighted when she put out a hand for his sandwich. He was waiting for his wife. He hadn't seen her for half an hour but he didn't mind watching people go by, and having occasional chats with random strangers and their grandchildren.

And so to now. After a big, and sometimes too big, 2019, I wish everyone a safe and peaceful Christmas.

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