That was my intent, but the popular culture has become so dreadful and hideous that the whole Stepford Wife experience was wasted, and I quickly gathered the bare minimum of things and went to the checkout.
Then Bruce Springsteen started singing:
I looked to her face to see any kind of pain building, any kind of stress at all, to send her over the cliff of sanity into the abyss of postal rage, but there was none. She had developed a survival mechanism to shut out the wretched noise of popular Christmas music. I suppose if I had to work in such an environment I would be sobbing and curled in a fetal position on the floor.
This will be remembered as the Christmas I found out that Bruce Springsteen couldn't sing.
Not that I'm disappointed.