Its that time of year again where i arise at some ungodly hour of the morning at the weekend and run like a headless chicken up and down Grafton Street looking for something to light up the faces of my nearest and dearest on Christmas Day. If i could get away with buying them some smelly soapy stuff from the pharmacy then I would have the clan smelling of roses with vanilla overtones on Christmas morning but nay, they're a fussy lot. I don't want to dabble in online shopping as I'd just end up using hours browsing through over-expensive remote controlled helicopters, bookmarking them for later and then going on to check out the credentials by reading the reviews. All this with Facebook breaks in-between. Nah, I'm going to brave the elements and get my sorry self to town. It may mean I will rugby-tackle a complete stranger to the ground for the last signed copy of Marian Keye's latest page-turner, but I know Mother Bleakley would do the same!
In the meantime, I'm counting on a reaction akin to this one for my efforts: