Word gets out that a friend of a friend had all their’s done by November 22. You picture this person in your mind. You decide that they are the smuggest, most ridiculous twat to have ever lived.
You read a humorous listicle about the stages of Christmas shopping, which makes you chuckle once or twice, primarily because you still believe you’ve got like six weeks or something before you need to do anything, maths not being your strong point.
You go for the first of many Christmas drinks, at which your pals provide reassurance by confirming that they’ve not bought anything yet either. These are good people and you really ought to hang out with them more often.
You look at your calendar and realise that after various parties and gatherings and whatnot you’ve only got four days in which you can possibly get to the shops. It’s fine – you can do it online once the important business of consuming your body weight in mulled wine is dealt with.
You’ve missed all the postage deadlines for the big online shops, and face having to pay extortionate express delivery charges to get your your stuff in time. Sod. That.
With a stubborn grumble, you reluctantly head to Oxford Street after work, leaving with a new jumper (for you) and a jumbo bag of Minstrels. You crack open the Minstrels on the way home.
You go to Westfield and stare into the abyss. Is it too late to convert to a less materialistic religion? You remember that you’re not even properly Christian. A brief existential crisis and an anti-consumerist Facebook rant ensues.
You pitch up at the family homestead looking apologetic (albeit very dashing in your new jumper) and clutching an embarrassingly flimsy bag containing vouchers, bottles and IOUs. Nothing is wrapped. As you toe your meagre offerings under the tree, a sibling is humblebragging about how they got all their Christmas shopping done by November 22. Enjoy your gift of half-eaten bag of Minstrels you smug, ridiculous twat.
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By David Clack