Last week, a sloshing, sagging, swinging, shit sack followed me everywhere I went. Come Saturday there were 20 days until I would be required to stand up in front of the entire class and say. ‘This present is a direct representation of what I think, and how much I feel for you’ before seeing 8 expressions of mindless excitement and gleeful anticipation melt from existence like hot snow. It was brown trousers time. My worries were, it’s no exaggeration to say, worsened by of those 20 days, half would be spent working, and 6 more completing various tasks I couldn’t and wouldn’t want to get around. Travelling, partying, eating a skip full of mince pies. This left 4 measly days (2 weekends) to complete the entire present list - which hadn’t been made.

I finally bit the bullet last Saturday. Dedicating this as the day to make the biggest dent. If there were any gaps, hopefully they’d be manageable enough to sweep up properly during the remaining 2 days. The option of sweeping them under the rug completely – by this I mean putting in absolutely no thought or effort, buying shit like socks, chocolates, or anything from The Body Shop, I’m proud to say is one I’ve never had the wankness to resort to.

I don’t know where you’re at personally with your gift shopping, but you’d do well to have finished by now, or at least know exactly what you want, and where to buy it from, probably even a back up place if it’s sold out from the first. If, like me, you don’t know what you still need, don’t tell anyone. If both your mind, and tongue with it slip, you’ll be met by hoards of clever-dicks telling you how they did all their shopping in 1984, and will be putting their feet up, spreading Brandy Butter straight onto their arse with a plastic beach spade this weekend. They’ll shake their combined heads in unison, tutt, and say

“Are you mental? Oxford St will be a nightmare this weekend! You should have bought everything well before now!”

No! What I should have done, was not ask you. No, wait a minute… I fucking didn’t!

Am I brave enough for Oxford St on a rainy December Saturday? I'm always brave enough. I don't really get stressed in crowds. Unless I'm late for something, then God help the old biddy and the blind man snailing down the pavement one pained shuffle at a time. If they're in my way, they're getting thrown in front of a bus!

Normal shopping, it’s fine to be slow. You amble about, nowhere really to go, and forever to get there in. But as the numbers increase, shops, purchases, coverage area, time required, you need breaks. It's impossible to stop when you're by yourself - no one to hold the bags. I can't be bringing all the presents into the toilets with me... How can I look my nan in the eye, knowing I've pissed within... well within pissing distance of her Crabtree & Evelyn potpourri? I can't.

So I was out all day Saturday. Expecting to have bags stacked up on my back like some sort of Blackpool Beach pony at Michael Jackson’s birthday party. Thousands of shops, all with their overworked Texas sized heating systems blowing musty, stale counterfeit air through my lungs like the breath of a hundred dogs. Millions of square feet covered with a reservoir of muddy puddle water passing through the holes in my shoes like mice in a Swiss cheesesmiths.

Of course it’s all worth it in the end. I kick off the shoes, get on some dry socks and towel off my hair. Hot Coffee, feet up and look back at the haul, satisfyingly ticking names off the list. Well actually I only came back with one item, and that was for myself. No matter, 10 minutes on Amazon, and we’re done. I’ll pick up some socks and chocolates from Tesco on Christmas Eve.

Christmas shopping done, Sunday is free to enjoy the British Music Experience Exhibition at the 02 with Claire. But they don’t let you take pictures there.