No Rest until Blackheath Common by nigeruns

Ding Dong Merrily on the High Street.....bah humbug...!

There is a good reason to why I have been training hard over the past few months. Many of you were maybe thinking that I was training hard for the marathon. Wrong. My preparation has been one in earnest for this yearly event, otherwise known as, Christmas shopping.

There is a art to this Christmas shopping lark, it requires you to be quick on your feet, and as light on your toes as an hundred metre sprinter. It requires you to be sharp and alert, like a golden eagle.  It also requires you to have the stamina of a world class endurance athlete, and it also requires you to have the wealth of Donald Trump. Though I may possess a number of these abilities, wealth is the one thing that still eludes me. So Santa, if you are reading this, all I want for Christmas is five numbers and the bonus ball.

Now maybe a good time to confess that I am not a professional shopper, this maybe partly due to my disability....? I am a male of the species. Christmas shopping for me has to be planned with the utmost military precision. So much so that I have to borrow a book from the library to help me on my way, the 'Colleen Mcloughlin SAS survival guide to Christmas Shopping'. 

Chapter one, of the serial shoppers guide states that you must firstly make a list of what presents you intend to thrill your family with on Christmas morning - a Nintendo Wii for your Granny, a pipe and slippers for your sister, and a pair of the most grotesque socks available for your aunts and uncles.  So that  you can finally seek revenge for the pair of grotesque socks that they sent you last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.....

Chapter 2, suggests that you do a recognisance of what stores your intended haul is located in. This is the first stage of Operation 'Bah Humbug'. Chapter three advises you how to draw up, and put into place a plan of attack.  A surgical strike detailing the shortest possible distance to walk ladened with the goodies, with a quick exit strategy should it all go pear shape.  You are now armed and dangerous, and with your credit card at the ready, you are now licensed to shop.

By the cover of darkness, I pounce on Birmingham city centre at seventeen hundred hours on a Friday evening.  This by coincidence is the same time that every man and his dog appear to also have planned their operations too. This has caused an increase in traffic, and has created a grid lock in the town centre. So I opt for plan B, and disembark the personnel carrier, a number 9 bus, and continue my sortie on foot. Chapter 4 of the survival guide covers camouflage. So disguised in woolly hat, scarf and winter coat, I blend in well with the native population. No one would guess that I was on a top secret operation to buy Christmas presents.  

The city is a hustle and bustle, and mix match of shoppers and office workers, who quickly dash home or disappear into bars for a Christmas party. The stores are packed, and there are long queues at the checkouts. I am lucky, as my first hits were successful. Then I arrive at HMV. I locate the DVD's on my list, success, and then I get to the checkout. I hand over my credit card, and I am asked by the space cadet assistant to enter my PIN number. Nothing, my mind has gone blank, what is my PIN number....? I have suddenly become struck down with alzimmers.  I can picture all the right digits, but not necessarily in the right order, and the transaction is not accepted. Not only is that but the queue behind me growing. Once more I make another attempt, and, still frustratingly the transaction is not accepted. The queue behind me is getting even longer, and I even spot a partridge in a pear tree at the far end of it. I also sense there is unrest as I have suddenly held up Christmas.

We now face a dilemma, as a third attempt will lock my card. Which means my cash flow will dry up, I will be forced to use paper money and I will spend Christmas broke and destitute. Digging deep in my pockets, I go prospecting for lose change and any old crumpled notes that maybe stashed away in the recess's of my pockets. The ever growing queue has now become a choir, and they are now swaying from side to side humming carols, or something that sounds like carols...."Oh come on...all yee faithful....."

To add to the chaos, the space cadet has gone into melt down, as the microchip in his epos decides at that very moment to crash, thus locking the till drawer, which brings further joy to the ever increasingly heavenly throng, the queue now seems to stretch back all the way to Bethlehem, with some little kid in a manger bawling its head off..."Shut up...shhhhhh..!!".

Three wise men then suddenly appear, bearing gifts of 'wit', 'Frankenstein' and 'have not got a clue'. The one with wit chuckles loudly at the dilemma that we are in. The second, resembling Frankenstein is seven foot tall with a flat head and bolt through his neck. He looks menacing and must be the store manager. The third just stands there scratching his head without a clue. All three ponder the situation, as I notice that a rotund man in a red outfit and white beard has now joined the huffing and puffing queue with a reindeer with a red nose. They prod the keys and rattle the till draw. They make phone calls, and then Frankenstein suggests something really technical. “Why don't they just switch it off and on...?  Low and behold it works, and a host of heavenly angels descend..."Halleluiah...!!" I can now purchase my DVD's and make a hasty retreat, as discussed in Chapter six, of the 'Christmas Shopping Guide', the chapter after the one on how to make a tit of yourself in front of hundreds of frustrated shoppers.

One lovable thing about Birmingham at Christmas is the German market, a seasonal, festive village of wooden huts that appear every year. There are gifts such as hand carved wooden toys, jewellery, candles and sweets. They play Christmas tunes of the fugal horn and wear lederhosen. You feel that you are in the Alps rather than the heart of an industrial city. You can drink and sample German wine and beer, and the smell of frying Bockwurst fills the air, and from a young German girl called Helga, who strangely has a Brummie accent, you can even get a mug of Bovril.   

No matter how much I try, I will never be a professional shopper. There should be a set of ground rules for Christmas shopping to follow, as in the 'Scrooge Guide to Bah Humbug Christmas Past - Present and Future'. Christmas shoppers should be between the age of 21 and 50. Kids should be banned, and be grateful of what the get from Santa Christmas morning. Banned also, should be single mothers with buggies, along with buskers, Big Issue sellers and carol singers. All shop staff should be trained and have a permanent smile etched onto their faces. They should be seasonal in their greetings, and not use the words "Sold out...!!" "Don't know, what is it...?" "Mate" and "NEXT....!!" The shop keeper should also have the ability to read your mind as you enter the store, as to relieve your frustration of wondering "where the hell is it..." when looking for that elusive gift. All of which would lead to a less stressful shopping experience.

I will be out shopping again tomorrow, but this time I will be one step ahead of the game. As tomorrow, I will be buying gifts for Christmas 2008. Now there is a plan that Colleen McLoughlin never thought of. (14/12/2007)