Handbags and gladrags...

This week has seen life return pretty much to normal again.

On Thursday afternoon, Mrs H (my Italian friend who makes a mean pizza) asked me to come into Oxford with her as she had presents to buy for various family members.

The lucky recipients of these gifts were a seven year old girl, a twenty one year old man, and her mother in law.

How hard could that be?

First stop was T K Maxx where we managed to nail the 7 years old's gift in a record breaking twelve and a half minutes (that time includes queuing, asking the cashier to repeat a question three times and rummaging round in our handbags for a carrier to avoid paying an additional 10p for a bag the size of a large family suitcase).

With this record breaking achievement, we set off to Uniqlo to buy something for the 21 year old man.  And here is where the wheels came off the wagon.  We emerged from Uniqlo one hour later with several carrier bags containing jumpers, a coat, some thermals, a shirt and two stripy tops.  None of which would have fitted/suited the poor birthday boy.

'We'll find something in Zara', said Mrs H with far too much confidence.  She was right.  I bought a tank top and a jacket, and she bought another cardigan.

'I think I'll leave this present for now', said Mrs H.  'After all, his birthday's not for ages, so I have loads of time to find something'. 'Quantify loads', I said as I hauled my bags to the other hand ( that would be the one which wasn't dragging on the floor because of the weight).  'At least three days', she said, dragging me into Marks and Spencer (obviously, this was prime retail space for the mother in law's present and we had already decided that a longer line sweater and pretty shirt would be perfect).  

Fast forward forty minutes and I haven't bought anything ( a miracle in itself, and worthy of a mention) but most of the sweaters are covered with glittery balls, jingle bells and portly Santas, none of which were suitable for an elegant lady's birthday present.

Now by this time, my post-party-knackered feet were hurling abuse at each other, but there was no holding back Mrs H, and in a final 'if there's nothing in Next, I might as well not go home', we thundered back down through the shopping centre (stopping for takeaway nachos en route for her boys) and trolleyed into Next where a suitable jumper and blouse were found.  I could almost hear the cheers from Winchester where the lovely lady resides.

On the way to market yesterday morning, Mrs H delivered some terrible news.  'The bloody blouse was the wrong size, and I have to back to Oxford again later.  Want to come with me again?'

Sitting in the passenger seat, I was praying that she couldn't hear my feet whimpering at the thought of another four hours of speed walking round Oxford.  'I'd love to, but I have to organise my knicker drawer'.

I think she believed me...