With less than a week until Christmas Day, my seasonal instincts scream that I should be in a state of full-blown panic. Traditionally, this weekend would be my last chance saloon: a frantic high-street blitz with my daughter drafted as a gift consultant, rewarded with lunch for her services. We would face the agonising questions in every shop: 'Would your aunt like this scarf? Does she wear turquoise? Is she a glove person?' The torture was real, often ending with a default box of chocolates and the nagging doubt: 'Is that what I gave her last year?'
The Ghost of Christmas Shopping Past
This frenzy was hardwired into a 20th-century Christmas. For those of us not naturally gifted at selecting presents – particularly the types that ladies seem to appreciate most – the annual pilgrimage was a prolonged confrontation with personal inadequacy. The physical ordeal of battling through crowded streets and shops, weighed down by armfuls of bags, was a shared national trauma. I often spent my way out of trouble, splurging beyond my budget or buying a broader array of gifts in the desperate hope that one might spark genuine delight.
Yet, this year, that familiar festive angst is conspicuously absent. My last-chance weekend looks remarkably copacetic. I've checked my list twice and realised that, while I have almost all my shopping still to do, none of it requires setting foot in a physical shop. Much of it can, in fact, be accomplished late on Christmas Eve. The relief is profound, like waking from a intense nightmare and feeling its weight lift from your shoulders.
The Liberation and Guilt of the Online Cavalry
If it weren't for the pangs of guilt about abandoning the high street, I'd be in clover. I mitigate this by pleading exhaustion. For veterans of decades of frontline action in department stores, marching past endless perfume counters and haberdashers, an honourable discharge feels due. Our tours of duty, which began last century, should surely be over. It's the younger generation's turn to step into the breach, yet they are the very ones leading the online shopping revolution, showing their elders how to desert the high street entirely.
The modern solution was demonstrated when my daughter pinged me her online 'wish list'. Simply opening the file reveals pre-vetted gifts that will land well. Items already purchased by others are greyed out, preventing duplicates while maintaining Christmas Day surprise. To buy, you click directly through to the vendor's website. It’s efficient, guesswork-free, and devoid of size or colour anxiety. I cleared ten minutes in my schedule and made significant progress, a task that once consumed an entire weekend.
New Traditions and a Touch of Melancholy
For those not providing a digital list, shortcuts abound. The gift of a dining experience is a masterful hack. A casual inquiry weeks in advance about nice restaurants recently visited yields the answer; they think they're offering a recommendation, but they're actually choosing their present. This cleverly solves the dual gift problem for couples in one fell swoop. Online restaurant tokens and Amazon vouchers can be purchased in a half-hour blitz on December 24th, with electronic delivery mercifully obviating the fiddly wrapping ordeal.
So, there is no panic. I have thought of everything, and my offerings will likely be well-received. Yet, a heaviness remains. It's not just the desperate trouble of our high streets. It's that none of this transactional ease feels very Christmassy. The Christmases I knew had shopping trips baked into their fabric. For all the stress of trailing through teeming town centres, I detect a melancholy now that it's gone. It was a national tradition – walking under twinkling lights, hearing the same seasonal hits in every store, bumping bags with fellow sufferers. We shared the experience, however grudgingly.
Expediting the whole ritual in minutes on a laptop is a welcome relief, but it is colder, more detached. Maybe next year, for old times' sake, I'll see if my daughter fancies helping her old man return to the frontline for one last look. Before that world, and that particular flavour of shared festive struggle, is gone for good.
