This reminds me of the hell that was the run-up to Christmas when I was growing up.
My mum used to buy beautiful and expensive boxed cards. My dad had lovely handwriting so she'd select the cards and he'd write them. They had loads of friends so this would take hours over 2 or 3 nights and would dominate everything.
She'd hand them over and say: 'That's for Margaret and John' but sometimes, usually when he'd just written 'Dear Marg...' she'd shout: 'No, no, no! What are you doing? I said I wanted that one for Iris and Tom.'
He'd protest that she hadn't said that, but what did it matter anyway, and we'd sometimes back him up and then she'd sulk and say Christmas was ruined and she'd never have said that because: 'everyone knows Margaret and John don't like coaching scenes.' 
She'd then grumble about the waste.
He'd try to head her off by asking several times before putting pen to paper: 'Now, this really is for Margaret and John, isn't it?' but every year she'd catch him out.
She loved him in her own little way...