The first weekend of December and the sack race is on, the one to fill as many Santa sacks as you can before teetering into bankruptcy.
Me and Mrs P headed for Stockport early doors, or 11am as it is on a Sunday. It would normally be Mrs P and her personal shopper, Miss P, but as the latter is having a whale of in Sheffield, I had to play Trinny to Mrs P’s Susannah. Or should that be the other way round.
We had expected to struggle to find a parking space, but this was a breeze. Also that we’d be fighting off the blood-maddened crowds with up-turned dining chairs, but it wasn’t so. In fact, it felt like a usual Sunday, ie crowded, but civilised.
As it was, we made a fair dent into the prezzie list over our four-hour sojourn. And I also picked up a few clues (hints) as to what Mrs P might expect from my direction come that holy morn.
You see, there is something to be said for paying attention. But then this particular sack race is a sprint, not a marathon.