Anyway. One of the things I got was for my brother's fianceé, whom I have mentioned before. Fortunately, she's reasonably easy to buy for: go into Lush, and find something pink.
As if anything would be that simple.
The first problem comes from the location: The only Lush I'm aware of in Edinburgh2 is on Princess St. Braving that on the Sunday before Christmas isn't exactly the most intelligent idea, but needs must when the Devil shits in your cereal. Having fought my way through the crowds of zombies and tourists, I hit the second barrier.
Now I've been very good this year. Positively fucking angelic. I've not touched a single cigarette. If I make it to the 27th of December, I'll have gone a full year, three hundred and sixty-six days without sucking off the Demon Nicotine for his oh, so tasty and stimulating seed3. But the damage is done and my lungs are fucked. Outside the shop stand a cluster of boyfriends and husbands, puffing away happily while the other half of their relationship goes to purchase something that looks like cheese and costs enough per gram that it should really be given with free mirror and rolled-up tenner. I don't mind the smoke so much, but it does stop me getting a nice deep breath before getting into the shop proper.
Lush stinks. There's no other way to put it; the stench within that establishment is enough to floor a rhino. Every kind of soap, gel, ungulent, and cleansing product they sell is crammed full of perfumed crap, and the end result is a shop that could be used in oxygen deprivation experiments. I wonder whether the staff have had their lungs surgically altered, or do they all fight over a bottle of oxygen hidden under the tills? After five minutes, I was coughing uncontrollably—my reduced lung capacity taking one look at what that establishment calls "air" and launching into violent protest.
Seriously, is there something I'm missing? Some trick, some repository of transparent respirators just behind the door? Or do these fucks not care that actively gassing the people trying to give them money isn't a good plan?
Then again, I have the same complaint about large branches of Boots, where you've got to fight through seven miles of imbeciles with perfume samplers spraying them into your face in order to find the drugs that will free your bronchial passages from the cold that's been holding them in a vice-like grip and is the reason that you've just hawked up a lung right there on the Elizabeth Arden stand and are looking at them as if to say "You brought this on yourselves, you unmitigated bastards."
I originally wrote that on Sunday evening. Says a lot that I'm only posting it now.
I've been sucked in by writing projects and ideas, which is why I've posted even less than before.
Family for Christmas. I must not smoke. I must not smoke. I must not smoke.
0: Sunday, that is. Whatever gødforsaken day it is when I actually post this entry doesn't matter.1
1: The Wednesday after. Typical, really.
2: I don't want to know of any others, thank you very much.
3: Hyperbole for comedic effect. I'm not one of those people who now wants to stop my smoking friends from stopping, since I know just how easily it would be for me to re-start for no reason and look like a hypocritical knob.