Silly Season Secret Society Shopping

I don’t know why but every year I leave my christmas shopping until the last minute. This year was no exception. Finishing work early today meant that I had time to go on the annual gift hunt. After parking 27 suburbs away from my destination I started on the long and arduous trek to the hallowed sliding glass doors that lead to shopping hell.

Entering through these doors is like entering into another world. The icy blast of the airconditioned wind chills you to the bone. Long hair and loose bits of ill concieved fashions ripple in the breeze like a living jungle. Unfortunately you are not allowed to hack your way through with a machete Indiana Jones style. All you can do is brace yourself and force a path between the sweating bodies.

A myriad of scents from thousands of deodorants and perfumes assail your nostrils. Midget ninjas disguised as children try to attack your crotch with sharp weapons disguised as toys. The noise from so many people is a deafining bass hum, thankfully drowning out the banality of xmas music. Even more disturbing is the chance of an attack from a hair monster. They live in old peoples noses and wait for a new host to get near so they can transfer, splitting amoeba style to create a new creature.

Claustrophobic panic starts to settle in as you realise that you have no idea what to get anyone. Now at this point you should blindly grab a product and then figure out who to give it to, however being flustered you end up thinking back to front. Mum - a tin of 2 stroke oil. Nephew - pink frilly nighty. The craziness just keeps going on.

Then disaster. The announcement of a special is made over the loudspeaker. Sweaty female faces turn upwards as one, as if hearing God. Males start climbing shelves and stacks of chocolate baskets to reach high ground as the females heads turn to and fro trying to sniff out the bargain. Thousands of overweight bums quiver in anticipation. Then the stampede starts.

Anyone still left in the isles gets trampled under countless bovine sneakers and pointy heels. This is survival of the fittest at work. I see a friend named Matt go down not far from me. After it was over I did the only thing I could think of for him. I wrote welcome in large black letters on his chest.

In the eerie silence that is the aftermath I had a revelation. There were no beautiful people here. You know the type. Perfect bodies. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. They always have the perfect gift.

Where on earth do these people shop ? Is there some secret society shopping mecca that only they know about ? I can imagine them laying down being fed grapes by a sales assistant as Oompa Loompas dance around showing them the perfect gifts for Uncle Frank, cousin Myrtle and everyone else.

Can someone please tell me where this place is so next year I can go there at the last minute to blindly grab gifts ?