Ges on the Box; Rattled by last-minute prezzie-hunt

DON’T you just love Christmas shopping? Fighting for the last tray of already-wrapped-in-bacon chipolata sausages in the supermarket.

If it was you who won them, well done . . . I don’t want you to spare a thought for my tiny grand-daughter’s face tomorrow when the turkey emerges from the oven minus said delicacy — the only bit of the gargantuan lunch she actually likes.

Nope, it isn’t my favourite activity. I always promise on January 1 that I’ll have the Christmas list all wrapped up (forgive the pun) by the end of August.

My daughter does. She’ll be off in the sales come Friday, scooping up the card and wrapping paper bargains, squirreling them away ready for the grand wrapping-up in the sun.

I don’t know who she takes after. If it hadn’t been a home birth I’d be suspicious. She cleans the house, makes her own bread, is organised down to the nth degree and good with money. Definitely a changeling.

Mind you, she misses all this last-minute frenetic fun. Like last Saturday’s game of hunt the Nintendo DS. Oh what joy Him Indoors and I had with this one.

But, success. . . of a sort. If you are still looking, then Argos at Elk Mill had a number of pink ones left at 5.45pm — though you had to buy a dog game too. I am confidently expecting my 11-year-old grandson’s disappointment with the game. Or maybe the colour.

The baby got rattles. Here again, we had fun. I tried to purchase them on the automatic sales till in above shop. Only to be instructed “this item has an age restriction, please purchase at a manned till” or words to that effect.

I asked the girl at the till why. She explained: “It’s an item for over-18s only.”

“It’s a baby’s rattle,” I said. But it did have an age restriction: three months.

Born difficult, I spoke to her superior, a young man just out of the rattle stage himself. After he checked — twice — that what I was saying was not a lie (though heaven knows, my day was problematic enough without making things up) he admitted defeat.

He didn’t buy my theory that it was to stop six-week-olds from flashing their plastic and buying toys they aren’t old enough for.

Then, to top the day off nicely, we popped into a large supermarket for a drop of the hard stuff. Only, the coffee machine was broken. Thinking I was being helpful (in this season of goodwill to all men and shop assistants) I told the girl taking the money. She demanded “What do you mean, broken?”.

I’ll spare you the rest of this tale, suffice to say I got a tad tetchy.

I’m only telling you all this to explain why I haven’t had time to watch any telly this week (apart from “Strictly” but as Rachel didn’t win, I’m not going to mention it).

Oh, happy Christmas by the way. I hope you enjoy those chipolatas.