Christmas Shopping Hypnosis

What would my mother prefer? A musical snow-globe or a ceramic reindeer? A philosophical dilemma.

What would my mother prefer? A musical snow-globe or a ceramic reindeer? A philosophical dilemma. I need to sleep on it.

I went out last night and come home at 4 a.m.

At 9 a.m. the ex poked me in the small of my back, to wake me up to open the door for the new cleaner, which I did, grumbling and irrationally angry. I mutter as I grope around and yank on my winter coat (no bra, I don’t open the door sans support.)

Somewhat sleep deprived, I decided to go to Marks and Spencer’s to do some quick food shopping. (I had a bra on by now)

Except I was unexpectedly stalled in their Christmas section, torn with indecision.

I picked up various items, that I was convinced would make amazing Christmas presents.

(One of these was a book light. How is that a good present? What was I thinking? Maybe that was for me. I’m actually not sure anymore.)

I’d pick one thing up, put something else down. Walk around the shelves, then repeat.

I did this for half an hour, racked with indecision, even though I was starving and hung over.

By the end of it I had 3 gifts I wasn’t even sure why I was buying. I was in a trance. I just wanted to buy something.

My stomach finally managed to drag me away from the Christmas hoopla to hunt down some pasta.

While in the food aisle I managed to snap myself out of my Christmas consumerist state of hypnosis and managed to surreptitiously slip 2 of the 3 Xmas products into various food sections.

Important to do this on the sly.

It’s one thing to stick something from the pudding aisle into the meat section, but it’s quite another to try to leave a book-light in-between the ready-meals and hope no one noticed you doing it.

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4 thoughts on “Christmas Shopping Hypnosis

  1. I’d go with the reindeer.

    I always just put stuff back where I found it. Was the store that crowded? Tsk tsk.

    So was this when Mops and Buckets was getting denuded, all the while?

    I enjoyed all the previous stories about the cleaning situation, but really I’m not familiar enough with these customs to comment. Is there some sort of council ordinance in Britain that says you *have* to have strangers come in and clean? Or is that just ‘the way it’s done’.

    Still sorry about your journalism student tho . . . .

    I am so hungry today. Should I go get pasta? Thinking, thinking . . .

  2. Well the custom is that the ex and I fight like cats and dogs when we are forced to spend 3 hours on a weekend cleaning.

    Seems like a waste to me, and i’m happy to let it go by the board, but the ex being a bit of a stickler cant bear this.

    I can’t bear spending that much time scrubbing a sink or whatever.

    So the quarrels from our differing ideology were beginning to taking a toll, the cleaner essentially saved our relationship from imploding. God bless that flash mop. We have no bucket.

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