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December 07 'Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la...CONTINUED......The escalator reaches its zenith. You see the ladies department sprawled before you, it seems to stretch to the end of time, but what is worse so do the people in it. You have seen more "personal space" in a tin of sardines. You begin to sweat. That warm coat you decided to wear to protect you from the ravishes of the winter weather suddenly seems like a bad idea. You take it off, but what with your handbag and three carrier bags containg impluse buys you deeply regret you now have your hands well and truly full. Uncomfortable and stressed does not begin to cover it. With trepidation you walk into Ground Zero. Jesus! The Hell's Own Grandmothers have infiltrated here too! Damn the NHS and their bastard hip replacement operations!
Joining the "Old dears" are your other favourite set of people, the "completely-out-of-control-mothers" and their "horrible-little-darlings". How you would love to call in close-air-support to get rid of this lot (and contrary to popular belief Napalm IS a GOOD THING). A shiver runs down your spine as you hear a Mother asking, yes, politely asking, her son, Jamie, to "stop taking the decorations off the tree and smashing them on the floor darling", you try to ignore it. Instead you focus on what your there for, find something for YOUR Mother and Mach to grid ASAP. You don't recognise any of the stock. The things you had in mind for her seem to have vanished only to be replaced with a load of old shite and tat that you wouldn't let your dog wear (not that you agree with people who put clothes on their dogs, it's all kinds of wrong - a rant for another time perhaps). To counter this you end up spending a hell of a lot more than you intended because it's the ONLY half descent thing left in her size.
You make your way to the checkout. Joy! There in the queue is Jamie and his pathetic excuse for a mother. You join it glaring at the kid. True to form Jamie works out that for some reason you hate him and decides to make this situation worse. He decides to give you a reason. First it starts with gentle kicking of your shopping bags and shins, followed by a noise which curddles your blood, you know, that high pitched squeal that children do when they've had too many e-numbers. The damp squib of a Mother tells him to "Shush" with finger over lips. He runs off doing "aeroplane wings" with his arms, humming loudly and simultaneously taking two other innocent bystanders out at the thighs, the mother aware you are watching her beloved sprog looks at you and smiles as if to say "Kids? Little characters aren't they" in no way do you respond, in fact you look straight through her with the contempt that she deserves.
In what seems like seconds, Jamie returns, obviously experiencing landing gear difficulties because he smashes straight into you. "For fuck sake!"
"Please don't use that language in front of my child!"
"Child? That isn't a child, it's a NIGHTMARE!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I should think so too!"
"It was an accident!"
"Are you referring to him slamming into me or his conception?"
"Look, I have asked him to stop but he's a free spirit! There's no need to be so rude!"
"Isn't there? Sorry to shock you but he's not a free spirit he's a brat, a brat which you have no control over whatsoever and quite frankly he shouldn't be allowed out!"
"I don't have to stand here and listen to this!"
"You're quite right, so why don't you do us all a favour and take that thing you call your son and FUCK OFF!"
She leaves, you feel that intial pang of guilt but it is soon overwhelmed by the admiring glances of the shoppers around you. You know it's what they were all thinking. You buy your Mum's present and decide to retire to the pub to celebrate!
Peace and good will to all.
The End November 30 'Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la......h-la-la-la-la….*coughing* excuse me while I throw up.
Yes children, it’s THAT time of year again! Soon the streets will be swarming with fat, merry men in red suits, NO! Not the Life Guards Regimental Dinner! Christmas silly! Whip out your chestnuts and prepare to roast them by an open fire to the soothing sound of Cliff Why Don’t You Just Admit You’re Gay Richard – I for one can HARDLY wait!
Picture, if you will, the scene, the House of Fraser or any other department store in the UK, a shining temple to well folded quality woollen goods, perfectly manicured cosmetic counters and immaculately polished floors *breathe in – go on* you can almost smell the pledge can’t you? The staff; well trained, efficient and ready to re-adjust a clothes rail in a nano-second should you dare to touch it, whilst simultaneously managing to cast their beady eyes over you as if to say “I don’t why you’re bothering you obviously can’t afford it!” But as if by magic and largely due to the “miracle of Christmas”, dear reader, the shop is transformed (slightly earlier each year) at this Festive Season. Yes! Let me take you there;
It a bitterly cold day, you see the shining brass and plate glass doors calling to you from across the street. You stop dead in your tracks. Of course! What an idiot you have been, EVERYTHING you could possibly need you will find in there! Why only three weeks ago you saw a perfect tie for your Dad, and Ben (he’s the one with the cat in the photos – unfortunately he belongs to me, the cat does not) has been raving about a coat he saw in there and Mum, well, frankly what wouldn’t your Mum like? You cross the street, smiling, yet still checking for cars (it never hurts to be road safe!). Joyfully you pull open the heavy doors, you feel the comforting blast of the convection heaters (how considerate they are!) you pass through the inner lobby and open the final door to the Aladdin’s cave of goodies that is House of Fraser.
*Gasp!* What is this? Can it be true? Surely you must have made some mistake, but no, all the advertising and logos everywhere clearly state House of Fraser and yet…this looks like….like….a...a....JUMBLE SALE!!
Gone are the neatly arranged, folded, size ordered, colour coded, stacks of knitwear to be replaced by a…trough full of unidentified largely nylon based, gaudy “stuff”. And look, look at this, what is this you can see around the trough, little white haired ladies, formerly sweet ‘auld grannies turned into demons, pushing and shoving their way past the next to get to the best bargains. You swear you actually saw one of them, the one with the purple rinse and evil eyes, swing at a rather frail looking one with her walking stick! Quick! Away from this madness, up to the ladies department immediately! You “Excuse me? Sorry? Can I just? Thanks? Sorry!” your way through the crowd and make it to the escalator. You wait, it is agonising and that feeling you get in the supermarket, you know the one where you just want to scream? You can feel it start to develop. Be calm, there will be nothing for the white haired minions up here! To be continued… |
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