“SHOULD be home in half an hour,” I say to Janet as we leave the multi-storey at Sheffield Hallamshire Hospital.
“You wish. Traffic’s always dense at this time of year.”
“This time of year? It’s only the 18th. There’s still another week to Christmas. Preparations shouldn’t start until Xmas Eve, anyway.”
Janet moans in a loud, haunting tone: “Ebenezer!”
An hour later, we’re only just passing the Hillsborough stadium at a snail’s pace with car horns blowing and tempers frayed.
Next day, I go to pick Janet up from Morrison’s and I realise Barnsley is just as frantic as Sheffield.
There’s not a single space in the car park. Not one.
So, like a weirdo in a Hitchcock film, I begin stalking those returning to their car with a trolley load of goods. Vehicles behind me, or approaching from the opposite direction, are competing for the same space, but I’m first.
A woman in a camel-haired coat, transfers her bulging bags into the back of her Range Rover and smiles at me as she slams the boot.
Nice woman – intelligent woman. But when she reverses out, she swings her car towards mine and leaves a narrow corridor for Mr Blue Fiat to accelerate into the vacant space, like a triumphant latter-day Sterling Moss.
“Sneaky barstool,” I shout (or words to that effect) as I crawl away, hunting for another space like a feral hound.
Aha! There’s one, but there are two cars blocking my path and both have finished shopping and are competing to leave the car park.
Mr Red Car tries to squeeze in front of Mr White Car but White Car is having none of it.
This is all good entertainment until Mr White Car loses his seasonal cool and climbs out of his vehicle ready for a scrap.
Now I’m feeling anxious because other drivers are circling like ravenous sharks for MY parking bay.
That’s it. As Popeye used to say: ‘I’ve stanz enough, I can’t stanz no more’.
“Get back in your flaming motor,” I bawl (using slightly more industrial language). “I’m trying to park up here!”
And, to my astonishment, Mr White Car does as he’s told, and drives off. Phew! That was a close shave because in my state of ill-health I couldn’t fight my way through a broken cobweb.
The vacant parking space is extremely slim so it takes a few minutes of shuffling to and fro, like Reginald Molehusband in the old TV advert.
Then, I find squeezing my rotund body out of my car is another monumental struggle.
Should I climb out of the passenger side? No, I might get stuck and have to phone the fire brigade.
Inside the supermarket I scour the aisles to find Janet. Sanity at last – but it’s temporary.
After a minor skirmish with Mr Muscles and his wife, the queues to the check-outs are long, very long. However, as we’re not employees of the company, Janet and I refuse, on principle, to use the self check-outs – and nothing will ever melt our resolve. Ever!
Ten minutes later, our queue hasn’t budged an inch.
“Sod it. Come on, Janet, to the self check-outs we go.”
“No. There’s only that little old lady in front of us. We’ll not be long now.”
“It’s crazy in here, isn’t it?” complains the old lady (she’s probably younger than me but I always think of myself as 18).
The woman behind the till answers: “It is love. I can’t wait for my shift to end.”
The lady then turns to me: “Did you see the fracas down aisle 10?”
“Fracas? No,” I reply. “I don’t think so.”
“Whooo, it was wild. They were fighting over the prawn cocktails. I thought they were going to come to blows.”
“Prawn cocktails? Erm, that might have been me. I’d put the very last one in our trolley when Mr Muscles sneaked it out and placed it in his own. The cheek!”
“Happy Christmas,” shouts the old lady as she collects her change and heads for the exit, relieved to escape the company of an obvious lunatic.
What a day! And because of the excessive trauma I’ll, henceforth, always associate the anarchy of Christmas 2025 with the end of the Titanic film.
Finally, always remember this, folks: nothing matches the true spirit of Christmas.
