TO AVOID being boxed in by Supreme Daleks, read on. Buying gifts for children can be a luckless chore so start planning now for next year. Seeking presents for my nephews and niece, I tripped along to the world- famous toy store Hamleys on the Sunday before Christmas.
Entrance to this emporium on London's Regent Street was barred by a bicep, which further investigation revealed belonged to a doorman. He looked like a nightclub bouncer, arm-hunted, rather than head-hunted, by Hamleys. He was clearly used to dealing
with wannabes; wannabuys, therefore, were no trouble. It was his job to prevent anyone entering through the exit door. There was a one-way system in operation, you see. There should have been a congestion charge too.
The queue round the ground floor was like the M25 with prams. Requesting a traffic report from a wan-faced woman, I was told: "We've been waiting an hour. It's barely moved."
The politics of this pram jam were similar to a traffic tailback. At junctions between the queue and the main thoroughfares of the shop, mothers applied their lipstick. Pram-pushing fathers were bumper to bumper, rear-ending the pram in front, on their mobile phones the entire time. Should phone usage while pushing be allowed, I wondered, joining the queue.
Occasionally, through lack of attention, these male drivers steered their prams into stacks of merchandise. One man knocked a doll into a puddle of spilt juice, then moved on without stopping to pick her up. It was like Chappaquiddick Barbie. Another, impatient to accelerate, pranged my heels. How about a new crime? "Pushing Dangerously While in Charge of a Pram?"
The journey to the till inched on. It was tempting to ask myself: "Are we nearly there yet?" I thought of breaking into my niece's Totally Glam Activity Set to keep myself entertained. Meanwhile, all around, tempers were fraying. But it wasn't the children who were throwing their toys out of the pram.
It was when I got stuck between two Supreme Daleks and a big Barney – boxed in by men trying to overtake – that flight seemed the only option. Not the PicooZ mini copter, which I'd had ample time to read was the fastest-selling toy in the world. Running away. If I stayed any longer, placing myself within the Dalek's extermination range would have been an inviting form of guilt-free suicide.
But there were still children to be bought for. I tried to get gift vouchers on Hamleys' website, but found it requires the recipient's e-mail address. My twin nephews are five. I didn't dare put my sister's name on the voucher – there are too many Barbies in Hamleys – nor my brother-in-law's, though his temptation might be the Doctor Who merchandise. Do parents now register a birth and then a domain name? We've had silver surfers. Now geeks that go goo-goo?
Returning to Scotland for Christmas, I happened to visit Frasers in Glasgow and noticed a crimson sticker on the escalator indicating continued ascent would lead to Hamleys. What? On the next floor, there was a subsequent arrow, encouraging Hamleys-hunters ever higher. And the next. How far up was I going? Was Hamleys heaven? Whoever made that decision hadn't been.
It was worse. There was a small branch of Hamleys on the top floor. There was no queue. Knowing that I could have saved myself all that trouble was sheer hell.
'Dave' shows how to play the name gameTHERE'S a lot in a name. Dave, particularly. It's the new name for the TV channel that used to be called UKTV G2. Now it's just Dave and it's incredibly successful. Men have voted with their remotes and Dave is now one of their favourite buttons.
Little else has changed about the channel since its dull old days as satellite dyslexia, though. There are still multiple episodes of Top Gear. And QI galore, perfect for a boys' night in.
What's altered is viewers don't have to concentrate to remember what the channel's called, which is vital when your target audience consists of blokes.
The implications of this are worrying. Men generally struggle to get their current girlfriend's name right and Dave the TV channel may have got them thinking. If, seeking an easy existence, they could also persuade women to answer to Dave, then surely Bob's your uncle? Actually, forget Bob. Dave's your uncle too. As well as the girlfriend and the telly. Keep life simple. Keep it all Dave.
Free broadband for senior citizens should, I suggest, be one of the assorted governmental goodies on offer. Whilst using dial-up at my dad's house this Christmas, I keep expecting sails to emerge from my laptop. It's not even steam-driven technology.
I pack a picnic before checking my e-mails. If anyone sends an attachment, I curse them as I crouch beside the telephone table in the hall. I daren't go near any actual websites. It takes fully two minutes for Google's homepage to arrive. And before it is downloaded, it seems compulsory that a parent trips over the wire and disconnects me.
And parents, who are disinterested in the phone at all other times of the day, suddenly wish to phone the dentist/Ken/Moira, leading one to feel like a visiting nuisance. As a vote-winner, this contemporary version of a free TV licence may be the best yet.
Prada has taken its first steps towards flotation. The Italian luxury goods label has appointed banks ahead of a planned public offering next year. We've had the It bag. Now the It portfolio? Next season, will a swanky fashionista boast, "my shares are from Prada"?
The full article contains 963 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
