A job in London Bridge. My journey takes me past 'The Christmas Shop', a twenty-four seven three hundred and sixty-five Groundhog Day of tinsel and baubles. I've only been in there once. It was October, and I needed to buy a pocket-sized shepherd (don't explain; don't justify). It was deeply disturbing in there, and I felt concern for the staff. That level of festive contamination has got to have consequences.
Today, Christmas is barely in evidence. Pushed into the background by the proliferation of Union Jacks. Bunting. Baubles. Tablecloths. Biscuit tins. Napkins. Pencil cases. If it exists, they've slapped a Union Jack on it. Jubilee/Olympic fever.
Now, the Union Jack is an excellent flag. Eye-catching. Individual. Bold. But I this year I have already seen more than enough of it*.
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| No |
(*I am especially unhappy about pastel versions. Particularly in bunting. Please file under 'no' along with cupcakes and Cath Kidston.)
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| Also no |
But perhaps overexposure will provide its own cure - and soon I will simply no longer register any flags, because I will be so used to them.
(In the same way that after two stops on the train yesterday I thankfully could no longer smell the man sitting opposite me. My nose adjusted. His disturbing biscuitiness neutralised into my temporary normality.)
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| Stop |
I'm hoping this will be the case. In the meantime, I hope all this hot flag action is a lovely change of scene for the staff at the Christmas Shop.
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Today, Christmas is barely in evidence. Pushed into the background by the proliferation of Union Jacks. Bunting. Baubles. Tablecloths. Biscuit tins. Napkins. Pencil cases. If it exists, they've slapped a Union Jack on it. Jubilee/Olympic fever. 
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