Lovely weekends. And Christmas shopping. And other things.

It was a fantastic weekend.

The first weekend in, oh I don't know how long, where I hadn't had to be somewhere. Doing something, arranging surprise 30th birthday parties, organising friends' dinner parties, catching early flights or running around trying to be in 4 places at once.

It was bliss.

Saturday morning, and no alarm. Waking up at my own pace, sat in bed sipping green tea and catching up on the abandoned novels scattered around my room. The gym when I wanted to get there, breakfast and coffee when I felt like it.

No rush.

No plans.

Except those that involved writing ALL my Christmas cards and doing ALL my Christmas shopping. But that was okay, you see. Because no one will be shopping on a Saturday night, will they?

They'll all be in pubs or restaurants, drinking mulled wine at friends' and staying indoors.
And then I, I could have the stores to myself, carefully perusing and browsing at my heart's content, carefully deciding on the perfect presents for my beloveds.

And although I had worked 2 Christmases in Selfridges' at M.A.C., for some reason unbeknownst to myself, or the rest of the shoppers who were supposed to be elsewhere (see above paragraph) I had myself convinced that Christmas shopping would be a delight. And a treat.

And that hordes of screaming children would be safely tucked into their beds and not barging into me when I manoeuvred my way through the throngs of tourists.

I had forgotten all about the tourists, you see.

And I had forgotten that it was actually the last Saturday before Christmas and the pubs would indeed be full.

With shoppers.

Who were out in full force in Selfridges, shopping for the sheer joy of it. The wonder in their eyes. The pleasure they took in fondling purses and cosmetics, shoes and earrings. Blindly handing over credit cards, mesmerised by the transactions, greedily grabbing purchases from the salesman's outstretched arms. Devoted to their craft. Because, you see, the shops were still open at 9pm.

So I gave up.

I was defeated by the crowds and their glazed eyes. Their bulging bags and purposeful strides.

And as I walked through South Molton street, myself mesmerised by the windows of Butler and Wilson, walking slowly in tune to the jazz buskers rendition of "White Christmas" on my way back to the tube, I got a little excited about Christmas after all.

Because, after all, there's always online shopping.

And e-cards.