The twelve days to Christmas are now down to four. No need to ask what everyone is doing. Joining in the last mad dash to the shops to buy, buy buy! . Today I was fooled into thinking I would have a quick 'n easy entry and exit to the Shopping Centre when the road leading to it was not chock-a-block with cars until I saw further along the packed slope vehicles bumper to bumper. Got a vacant space after circling the carpark three times.All that effort in search of the fresh sprouts reported to be in short supply this year when personal greed took over and I rode the lift to the ground floor in search of delicious bars of gluten-free marzipan chocolate.
In the line of cars people were making use of the enforced wait absorbed in their Ipads. As a writer of novels and short stories I like to thinkof them as potential customers and with a wave of my magic wand boldly display my wares on their windscreens in coloured lights. Would that I could and see their looks of shocked delight as they viewed the covers of my books and maybe peeked inside 'The Mask' to read the opening lines of the prizewinning story Menomadness whose ageing heroine built on Rubenesque lines became enthralled by her own own buxom body. Or the sad old lady with the failing memory trying in vain to recall her son's parting words at their last meeting only hazily recalling his vague promise to pick her up from the Old People's Home on Christmas Day and when he is running late forlornly wonders if it could have been, 'If we don't see you for Christmas we'll be sure to have you out for the New Year.'