Deck the Paul...

An ill-advised seasonal trip into London’s West End has convinced Paul Carter that he’s no toy boy

According to that song that goes “tra la la la la” a lot, this is, supposedly, the season to be jolly.

For the most part, I agree. It might surprise you to learn that I actually like Christmas a lot – it’s the only time of year when eating, drinking and the wondrously vague “being merry” are actively encouraged.

There’s one part I don’t like though – shopping.

Case in point, I tried to get into Hamley’s the other weekend. It was an experience I can only imagine being similar to attempting to stuff myself into the back passage of a well-fed rhinoceros.

As I’ve documented before, I don’t have a particular fondness for children, so in retrospect, attempting to visit the world’s most famous toy shop wasn’t the best idea. There are lots of them there you see. Not only does the sound that more than six of them together make physically turn my blood to vinegar (I measured it) but they tend to find me more fascinating than Santa, Rudolph, and all the elves combined. Not ideal.

I like to imagine to myself that backstage (or whatever it’s called in shops), I actually caused some sort of kerfuffle,with managers and security staff running around panicking that I was distracting the children from badgering their parents into spending vast amounts of money.

My timing could have been better too. Visiting on a Saturday less than a month before Giftmas was idiocy in the extreme. You see – and I’m not just talking about toy shops here – something about this time of year seems to bring out the worst in people the second they have a shopping bag in their hands. The very same people who will no doubt be volunteering in soup kitchens for the homeless and setting up gawdy festive displays on the front of their houses suddenly turn into kitten-kicking, elderly-elbowing Noel nightmares when they brave the stores.

I’ve not gone as far as setting up a spreadsheet or anything, but I reckon I get elbowed, shoved, knocked and barged more often at this time of year than across the rest of the year put together.

As a result, I shop online now. At least that way I can reinforce my own smugness about not
coming home battered and bruised like all the other poor sods who have braved it. The drawback to shopping online though is that my standard of presents has to be higher. I can no longer blame the fact I bought my 11-year-old nephew some cat food on the fact that it was the only part of the shop I was able to get to before suffocating. Damn you internet and your extensive product ranges.