been an awful good girl...

I go Christmas shopping. I lurk around Seven Dials with my coat zipped up to my nose and wander in and out of surprisingly quiet shops touching things and then walking away from them. After an hour or so of this I make a very minor present purchase.

Then I go to the London Graphics centre and buy myself two new drawing pens, a new Moleskine notebook (which I dither about for ages as it really is exceptionally expensive for what it is) and a magazine with the strapline 'for Good Looking, Smart People'. (I decide that I am definitely both of these.) These purchases makes me feel like an artist, which is silly really; but it still feels nice. I then spend some considerable time standing in front of rainbow-striped packing tape, trying to come up with a reason why I ought to buy myself some. This makes me feel like a seven-year old, which doesn't feel too bad either.

Abandoning the tape I wander about Covent Garden for a bit in a little bubble of my own making: eat a pasty, ignore the street performers, and do a lot more touching and walking away. As I walk back to the train I am sucked as if by magic into an electrical shop to buy myself some new headphones.

I am good at Christmas shopping.