The View from Parson Street Nose

I don't know why I bother taking the Skipper Christmas shopping, he only has to see a DIY section and he rapidly becomes next to useless. I left him with the nuts and bolts in Wilkinson's and scurried off to Poundland to scrutinise their paper cups and plates.

It was packed in the store and when I attempted to take a short-cut through the snack foods I ground to a halt behind a group of lads.

"We needs Pot Noodles for tonight," said one.

"What for?" His friend's face was hardly visible under a knitted trapper hat.

"We'll all be snack-happy when we comes out the club tonight," replied the first lad shovelling yet more Pot Noodles into his basket.

"What do we need so many for?" asked the be-hatted one.

"We might bring girls back." The first lad turned, wiggling his eyebrows hopefully.

"I thought it were chocolate that got girls going," shrugged another boy. 

"You better go and get some chocolate in then." The first lad pointed to a shelf, nearly knocking all the cups out of my arms.

Dusk had landed when I emerged. Thankfully, the Asda arches didn't look too busy and I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't be jostled for at least a few moments. But the fates must have heard my thoughts because all too soon the space was filled with a horrendous cacophony of drunken female voices and worst still they were advancing up behind me. I closed my eyes, sucking in a breath as they swarmed around me, only daring to look when the worst of the crowd seemed to have passed under the end archway.

I quickly wished I'd kept my eyes closed for in front of me was a strumpet's hen-night. About fifteen women dressed in fish-net stockings, ridiculous shoes and an assortment of atrocious leatherette and leopard-skin boudoir-wear and as for the make-up, well, Danny La-Rue would have been most jealous is all I can say.

Suddenly a blousy blonde turned and bellowed my way. She was freakishly tall in her sky-scraper heels and her chesticles were spilling over the top of her balconette brassiere like tripe from a bowl.

"Oy! Come on ar Nan. Get a ruddy move-on, will you?"

I stood to one side by the pawnbroker's window to let a raddled creature with teased up hair and red lipstick shuffle past me puffing on an extra-long ciggie. Her skinny legs were clad in fishnet tights shoved into filthy-dirty pink Ugg Boots.

"We're taking Asdas by storm, Nan," yelled the blonde propelling the doddering doxy through the doorway and into the store. The old woman spat on her ciggie, stuffing it behind her ear.

When I got back to the car, Skipper was ensconced in the passenger seat munching his way through a six-pack of mince-pies.

"What's up with you?" he said spraying crumbs all over the dashboard. "Seen a ghost?"

"Give me one of those pies," I said. "It's worse than that – I've just seen a septuagenarian in a basque."