Have I mentioned before that I hate shopping? (And ker-bam! Half of my female readers leave.)
It's true; I do. If pressed to describe why, I'd say it's a cross between the mathematical odds of finding something you a) like, b) can afford, and c) look good in, and the fact that you have to deal with Other People in the form of traffic, parking, aisle-blocking, indirect wandering, noisy conversations, buskers, and on and on and on it goes. Have you ever watched C.S.I. and marvelled at the fact that, had someone not turned their head at exactly the right moment to see the bullet hole on the corner of the car fender as it disappeared into the baker's neighbour's secret underground car-park that they had previously thought was merely a shed used by local children for vegetable-growing experiments except for that time that little Sarah disappeared in there for eight days before being re-discovered by a passing Jesuit priest and only then because he was taking his sick mother's Pomeranian for a walk and it heard the dog whistle that little Sarah found under one of the ammunition benches but whose function has never really been explained, the crime would not have been solved? Well, that's the way I feel about shopping*.
So my challenge is to survive today's Boxing Day sales. As I type this, I am aware that this could be my final blog post. My arms may be torn off and used as battering tools by women in the GHD hair straightener section. It's possible I will wander between several dozen tweens and a Justin Bieber CD rack. Most likely, I will merely be crushed into a freezer in an unfortunate whitegoods-related incident.
For those about to shop, I salute you. It's been an honour.
* i.e. The odds of it working out successfully are both minuscule and not without unnecessarily convoluted circumstances.