Boxing Day

Another great Christmas tradition. Heading out to do some frenzied shopping the day after receiving a pile of gifts—why not? The whole idea might cast a bad light on the Canadian national character, except that we can blame it on the British. They started it, we're just here for the sales.

I haven't actually gone shopping on Boxing Day for almost ten years. Combat shopping and a history of retail-induced panic attacks do not mix. I decided it might be safe to try the Bay. At the very least, I wouldn't be bothered by any excessively cheerful sales staff. I think it's actually a policy for Bay staff to ignore shoppers unless you are waving cash in their face, begging to pay so you can get the hell out of there. They may also acknowledge you if you set yourself on fire, but don't count on it.

The whole store had a cheerfully apocalyptic feel, with women fighting over denim and tottering piles of cashmere blend. A little bit of elbow work and I came away with a pretty nice sweater. Embolded, I decided to venture out to the mall, where the real carnage happens. I tried to look around a couple of the trendier shops, but I was scared away by the line-ups for the change rooms and the steely-eyed determination of the other shoppers. They knew I was an amateur and ignored me as such. Sparkly shirts were snatched out of my hands before I could even talk myself into such a useless purchase.

I decided to flee pretty quickly. My last stop was the lucky one, though. I found some half-price books and grabbed a couple huge Taschen art guides. If I start reading now, I'll be hip by this time next week.

So I guess it was worth it, despite leaving me with a bad taste (what with it being an 'orgy of consumerism' and all). I think I'll stay away for a few more years, unless I hear rumours of cheap books. Then it's every man for himself.