Just for a change, my husband did something last week that made me deeply embarrassed.

He thought it would liven up my office Christmas dinner if my colleagues were to see an unflattering holiday snap of me semi-naked.

That's shocking enough, but it was the sneaky way he did it that really caused me to blush and turn purple with rage.

As part of the festive tradition, our office had organised a Secret Santa sack.

Each of us had pulled a name out of a hat and had then bought a silly present for that person. The important thing was that the giver remained anonymous.

I'd found a fantastic pair of gold false eyelashes for my lucky recipient, but on the night of the do I'd been in a bit of a rush and my husband, who was gearing up for a night in front of the telly with a few cans of lager, offered to wrap the present for me.

I was touched by his kindness. But while I was having a quick soak in the bath, he did the dirty deed.

Later that evening, between the turkey and the pud, the sack came out. The presents were handed round and I was given a magic paper garden that promised to blossom when I added water.

I looked across the table to my colleague who was ripping off my husband's handiwork and was secretly thrilled to see how pleased she was with the eyelashes.

But then she held up something which had also fallen out of her parcel.

"What's this?" she said, looking at what I soon realised, with absolute horror, was a snap of me on a Spanish beach.

She didn't instantly recognise who it was as the photograph had captured me grimacing while trying to hold on to a towel that was being tugged away from me (by my husband, surprisingly enough).

The picture was then passed around a few fellow diners who giggled and puzzled over it while I tried to hide behind my magic garden. What else could I do?

Eventually, my colleagues sussed it was me and I had to come clean.

"It's my husband's idea of a joke," I said, gratefully taking back the photograph."I ask him to do me a favour, and this is what happens."

My husband was reading his book in bed when I stormed into the bedroom very late that evening, my anger fuelled by a quantity of red wine.

"How did it go?" he said, grinning.

"I can't believe you did that to me." I said. "I can't believe you wanted to embarrass me in front of my colleagues."

"Oh sweetheart, it was funny."

"How would you know?" I fumed. "You weren't even there. I wouldn't have dared do something like that to you. What made you do it? "

"The beer," he said. "I had two cans while you were in the bath and the idea just came to me. I didn't think about the consequences."

He has yet to experience the consequences. Revenge, I've decided, is a dish best served in the middle of January.