I have started the Christmas shopping but Princes Street left me traumatised

I get a tad excited about Christmas shopping, but the reality doesn’t measure up to my giddy tinsel-strewn fantasy.

First of all, the gift list is prepared, according to who has been naughty, nice or mercurial.

I tick a few of those items off with a spot of online shopping.

Then, I head into town for Phase Two of the festive project. My beat will be Princes Street, maybe St James Quarter and Broughton Street’s independents.

I’ll save Stockbridge and Bruntsfield neighbourhood pilgrimages for another day.

Tra-la-la. Hark the herald angels sing. How festive. Maybe I’ll even grab a snowdrift mocha-frappu-cino from somewhere, and rinse it down with a mince pie.

But, no, it’s never as merry as I think it’ll be.

Carnage and misery always ensues.

Unless you’re a cottonheaded ninnymuggins, you should never go into town, when the big C is looming. And especially not on a day that begins with S. Probably not an F either.

I have instant remorse, almost as soon as the bus decants me.

I’d forgotten about the crowds, you see, and the queues.

I am a speedy walker, who is slowed down by the fact that everyone else seems to be wearing baffies filled with cement. (Otherwise known as Uggs).

On a recent visit, I optimistically thought I’d garner a bit of festive spirit en route, by cutting through the Christmas Market at the bottom of The Mound.

Rookie error. I’m an Edinburger, I should know this is a no-go zone.

Indeed, it was pretty grim.

My visit was soundtracked by screams from the vertiginous Starflyer that nearly knocks the Gothic stalagmite peak off the Scott Monument.

There was trampled unidentifiable detritus on the cobbles, and various beige foods and drinks on sale for about £20 a pop. These included what resembled crisps on a kebab stick.

At one stall, it looked as if they were selling nativity scenes carved from butter.

We were all kettled by the hot dog stall, and a few of us started nudging towards the road, like the 2p pieces in an arcade game.

A bus tooted its horn.

Someone else tutted and gave me a Paddington hard stare when I tried to squeeze past in order to escape. So much for goodwill to all men. The last time I was here, a pickpocket got angry when I caught him attempting to unzip my backpack, so I clutched my banana bag tightly to my chest this time.

Bah humbug. Mind you, I wouldn’t say no to a stroopwafel. They smell very come hither.

Into Marks & Spencer - a terrible faux pas.

The foodhall was totally rammed.

I forgot about this seasonal phenomenon.

There was a queue of about 40, snaking past the sandwich fridges, and all with baskets full of musical biscuit tins, Cornish Cruncher and chocolate advent calendars.

I found myself clutching a packet of their Sea Salt & Balsamic Vinegar crisps, and I’m not sure how it happened. Probably because they’re no ordinary snacks, they’re M&S ones.

The toilet queue was T in the Park length.

Sadly, it was very early on in my Christmas shopping sessions that I began to deviate from the list that I’d compiled.

You’re not supposed to be shopping for yourself, but it happens, inevitably.

I find myself at the counter, on another floor, with a new jumper.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I have a strict budget. But there is the internal tussle. I deserve a reward, because shopping is stressful.

Back to the script, and my 13-year-old niece has requested a golden fleece item that appears to be sold out everywhere. They have ceased production and there are none left on the planet.

Apparently, this ring went viral on TikTok. Now all the teens want one.

When she was tiny, I could freestyle her gifts. As long as it was cute, edible or sparkly, she’d be happy. Those were the days.

Now, this teen is too cool, I’m not allowed to choose her gift. I’d get it SO wrong.

I trudge along to the overpriced jewellery shop, and ask behind the counter.

“Ah, I’m afraid it’s sold out everywhere, and I don’t know when it’ll be back, if ever, but if you’d like to join the queue back there, you can wait and speak to a customer advisor.”

“But it’s sold out, right?”

“Yes, but if you’d just join the queue.”

Eh, no thanks.

I give up and head to the other shop, where my 11-year-old niece has requested something slightly easier to find. It should be on sale, because it seems that every day is Black Friday. I check the rails. “Do you have this in an XS?” I ask one of the super cool servers.

I know what his reply is going to be, before he says it.

“It’s just what’s out.” Ah, those fateful words, served with an eye roll. It’s like a Mini Milk stabbed in the heart.

I go to another branch, and find the thing she wants. Oh happy day.

The card machine is broken, so I have to answer their customer satisfaction questionnaire on the keypad three times. “Did you enjoy your experience today?,” it asks. I press green for “yes”, “yes”, then, increasingly grumpy, on the third attempt to pay, “no”.

I’m just not cut out for this Christmas shopping malarkey.

Remind me next year as, from now on, it’s online shopping only.