Of all the perils that lurk to make the Christmas shopper’s life a misery, which is the worst? Finding somewhere to park? The crowds? Noddy-bloody-Holder? The M+S food hall? Folk in Santa hats trying to flog you tat? The Rotary Club, their piss-poor sleigh and rattling buckets? Nope, it’s the perfume counter.
You remember that someone, somewhere needs, or is rather going to get, willing or not, a bottle of scent/after shave (delete as appropriate) and to show your own willingness to make the right choice, well you have to try it out by squirting the back of you hand with a tester bottle.
Fine in theory, but since your arms are probably loaded with unfeasibly heavy bags and the tester sprays are pretty powerful, the stuff usually goes astray and all over the place.
I was victim on Sunday. The idea was that some good smelly would be a good idea for Master P. We didn’t find any, but I ended up with one that smells like cat pee that has impragnated the left sleeve of my jacket and revisits me every time I put it on even three days later. Awful.