Retail Hell

Today was my annual descent into the uttermost depths of Hell.

Christmas shopping.

A torment the wife finds necessary to inflict upon the rest of us. Unlike her, I didn't grow up with the fuckin' Waltons. My family has a tacit agreement to buy for our own spawn and not inflict the obligation to reciprocate. A very sensible arrangement!

As the maw of the pit opened, I fell into the first levels of my torment. The Warehouse. A seething mass of semi-evolved simians pawed shelves full of cheap and not so cheap goods. Few wore deodorant and all had children, most behaving badly.

After five minutes, Mr Three demanded the toilet. It was out of order.

The descent continued as I attempted to find a viewable DVD in the uder $10 bin, while the wife did a speed dash to the nearest service station, in search of a (working) toilet. My autistic 5 year old amused himself by snatching at passing handbags.

Departing with $90 worth of junk, to swap for other junk, it was time to buy food.

Express elevator to the Ninth Circle, going down!

WritePrice, Masterton- Vittuls fer Hillbilly's.

The demon lord of that plane had decreed his minions must push overladen trolleys full of beans, making progress on one of the busiest days of the year, near impossible. Especially when one of the lumbering she-mountains spilled into the same aisle.

Lured by the $3.98/kg pork special, the toothless unwashed had flocked from near and far and a forklift was kept busy resupplying pallets of Tui.

Mr Three again demands the toilet and again I'm left with a trolley full of pork and sausages- and the handbag-snatcher, who can reach the shelves in the narrow isles.

With the list near complete, I rush for the shortest checkout line. The trolley in front had been loaded by Mrs Creosote. Mr Five shits his pants- probably thought she was going to eat him!

The stench is great. And it's a thirty-five minute drive home.

I finished the shopping via the internet...