Article - Sydney Morning Herald, Tuesday December 23rd 2008
Bring on the mad charge of the credit card brigade
William McInnes
In search of a Christmas present I found myself standing in a line.
Noise. Children screaming. Piped music. Voices over speaker systems. And a voice close to me.
"You weren't in Underbelly," said the large woman in front of me at the checkout. A couple of bored shoppers turned to look. A price check was in progress so we had time to kill.
I smiled.
"You weren't in Underbelly," she repeated, pointing in a slightly accusing manner with a George Foreman Fat Beating Grill. "No, I wasn't was I?"
I clutched a collection of underpants and socks, the all-purpose stocking fillers. Dean Martin crooned Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer from the store's sound system, this year's Yuletide shopping anthem that haunts you from shop to shop.
Nobody said much as we listened to a long-dead singer from an age of full employment and post-World War II certainties. Then her partner spoke. "I saw Australia … you weren't in that either."
He was even larger than she was. He wore a baseball cap with BAD emblazoned on the brim.
"No," I admitted, as Dean warbled away. "I wasn't in Australia."
Bad Hat nodded. "Yeah, you weren't in that one," he said sagely.
"Bloody long," said Grill Purchaser, shaking her head. "You buying some undies?" she asked. "I am."
"Well, you always need undies," said Bad Hat. The price-check cleared and we all moved on.
"You getting much work? Play acting?" asked the Griller.
And she sounded a little concerned, as if I hadn't been in enough she had seen. "Well, enough to keep me in undies," I reassured her.
They laughed. "Finished your shopping?" I asked. They laughed a bit louder.
It sounded like a scene from Robin Hood. Everyone was laughing. Maybe it was just Christmas.
"No, way to go yet. Got his," and the George Foreman Fat Beating Grill was proffered in the direction of Bad Hat.
"But we've got to spend the rest of Kev's cheque," said Bad Hat.
"Well, good luck," I said.
"Yeah mate, you too," said the Griller, and they disappeared off in the throng to spend the rest of Kev's cheque. Spend to keep the economy ticking over.
Maybe I should be buying a little more than undies and socks. Perhaps I shouldn't wait for Kev's cheque. I should charge into the shops with my credit card flying like the flag of the 7th Cavalry, here to save the day. To buy up big, to save the economy. My daughter had an idea. She came up with a copy of That'd Be Right by William McInnes. "Maybe you should buy it, Dad," she said helpfully.
Perhaps instead of the Seventh it was more the Credit Charge of the Light Brigade, just some mad sod's shot at glory. Well, in any case, at least the Light Brigade got a poem out of it.
Maybe a latterday Tennyson will write an epic ode to the Christmas shoppers of 2008 who tried to buy up big in the face of the GFC. The Global Financial Crisis.
When something is serious, letters describe it, but only by the people who never saw it coming, the brokers, the commentators and bankers and all their fellow travellers who got things so wrong. I bet they aren't buying up big this Christmas.
And then I think to myself, it doesn't matter. People don't buy things at Christmas just for the sake of it. They do it because they want Christmas to be fun. To be good, to be happy.
Maybe somebody somewhere cottoned on to the idea that this spirit of generosity was an opportunity to make a dollar. But all in all, I like it.
Not standing in checkout lines and shopping and the whole commercialisation, but I don't care how daggy it is - I like Christmas. I like people giving stuff to others and I like people thinking outside themselves.
After another hour of shuffling through the mall and being chased by Deano's Red-Nosed Reindeer, I stumble through the car park back to my car. Big four-wheel-drives cruise past like sharks, looking for a park.
I turn down a line of bays to see a jam of cars. A group of trolleys and bags are strewn about. At first I think somebody might be hurt, there's been some sort of accident.
I get closer and see I see Bad Hat, a bloke in a suit, a tradie in King Gees and the George Foremen Griller. They're all pushing a car.
It's driven by a harried looking woman wearing a burqa with a load of kids. "She left the lights on," explains the tradie.
I put down my items and join in. We push, the car chugs into life and the woman smiles and waves her thanks.
"Merry Christmas," she calls out.
"Merry Christmas," says the man in the suit. And he smiles to himself.
"Yeah," puffs Bad Hat. And he turns to me, shaking his head: "You weren't in Underbelly."
Merry Christmas to you Bad Hat, and Merry Christmas to all of you.
William McInnes
In search of a Christmas present I found myself standing in a line.
Noise. Children screaming. Piped music. Voices over speaker systems. And a voice close to me.
"You weren't in Underbelly," said the large woman in front of me at the checkout. A couple of bored shoppers turned to look. A price check was in progress so we had time to kill.
I smiled.
"You weren't in Underbelly," she repeated, pointing in a slightly accusing manner with a George Foreman Fat Beating Grill. "No, I wasn't was I?"
I clutched a collection of underpants and socks, the all-purpose stocking fillers. Dean Martin crooned Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer from the store's sound system, this year's Yuletide shopping anthem that haunts you from shop to shop.
Nobody said much as we listened to a long-dead singer from an age of full employment and post-World War II certainties. Then her partner spoke. "I saw Australia … you weren't in that either."
He was even larger than she was. He wore a baseball cap with BAD emblazoned on the brim.
"No," I admitted, as Dean warbled away. "I wasn't in Australia."
Bad Hat nodded. "Yeah, you weren't in that one," he said sagely.
"Bloody long," said Grill Purchaser, shaking her head. "You buying some undies?" she asked. "I am."
"Well, you always need undies," said Bad Hat. The price-check cleared and we all moved on.
"You getting much work? Play acting?" asked the Griller.
And she sounded a little concerned, as if I hadn't been in enough she had seen. "Well, enough to keep me in undies," I reassured her.
They laughed. "Finished your shopping?" I asked. They laughed a bit louder.
It sounded like a scene from Robin Hood. Everyone was laughing. Maybe it was just Christmas.
"No, way to go yet. Got his," and the George Foreman Fat Beating Grill was proffered in the direction of Bad Hat.
"But we've got to spend the rest of Kev's cheque," said Bad Hat.
"Well, good luck," I said.
"Yeah mate, you too," said the Griller, and they disappeared off in the throng to spend the rest of Kev's cheque. Spend to keep the economy ticking over.
Maybe I should be buying a little more than undies and socks. Perhaps I shouldn't wait for Kev's cheque. I should charge into the shops with my credit card flying like the flag of the 7th Cavalry, here to save the day. To buy up big, to save the economy. My daughter had an idea. She came up with a copy of That'd Be Right by William McInnes. "Maybe you should buy it, Dad," she said helpfully.
Perhaps instead of the Seventh it was more the Credit Charge of the Light Brigade, just some mad sod's shot at glory. Well, in any case, at least the Light Brigade got a poem out of it.
Maybe a latterday Tennyson will write an epic ode to the Christmas shoppers of 2008 who tried to buy up big in the face of the GFC. The Global Financial Crisis.
When something is serious, letters describe it, but only by the people who never saw it coming, the brokers, the commentators and bankers and all their fellow travellers who got things so wrong. I bet they aren't buying up big this Christmas.
And then I think to myself, it doesn't matter. People don't buy things at Christmas just for the sake of it. They do it because they want Christmas to be fun. To be good, to be happy.
Maybe somebody somewhere cottoned on to the idea that this spirit of generosity was an opportunity to make a dollar. But all in all, I like it.
Not standing in checkout lines and shopping and the whole commercialisation, but I don't care how daggy it is - I like Christmas. I like people giving stuff to others and I like people thinking outside themselves.
After another hour of shuffling through the mall and being chased by Deano's Red-Nosed Reindeer, I stumble through the car park back to my car. Big four-wheel-drives cruise past like sharks, looking for a park.
I turn down a line of bays to see a jam of cars. A group of trolleys and bags are strewn about. At first I think somebody might be hurt, there's been some sort of accident.
I get closer and see I see Bad Hat, a bloke in a suit, a tradie in King Gees and the George Foremen Griller. They're all pushing a car.
It's driven by a harried looking woman wearing a burqa with a load of kids. "She left the lights on," explains the tradie.
I put down my items and join in. We push, the car chugs into life and the woman smiles and waves her thanks.
"Merry Christmas," she calls out.
"Merry Christmas," says the man in the suit. And he smiles to himself.
"Yeah," puffs Bad Hat. And he turns to me, shaking his head: "You weren't in Underbelly."
Merry Christmas to you Bad Hat, and Merry Christmas to all of you.
Labels: article, Christmas, shopping, Sydney Morning Herald, tolerance, writing
posted by Sleepydumpling at 5:39 PM
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