Chloe awakens early on a somber Sunday morning. She is wearing the official outfit of the fierce Christmas shopper: Lululemon leggings, white singlet, clean ASIC Gels and her hair tied into a practical ponytail. This ain’t no Thursday night fashion-flutter at Garden City, this is the cut-throat world of CBD shopping. She limbers up with a quick yoga session and applies her makeup like she was Arnie smearing cold mud on himself in the Predator. Her blank concentration sends shivers up Pete’s spine, as he tries to find a spot in their Queen bed to hide from the inevitable orders he will receive. “Shower before we go, you smell like Tim Gossage’s arse-dags after he ate a curry buffet off Lachy Reid’s lower gooch”.

Pete drives around the city looking for a park while Chloe flicks through her phone and peruses the sales. He is forced to pull into a Wilson’s Carpark and loses the will to live when he takes a gander at the ol price-a-roonies on the board. That’s $30 he could have invested in some ice cold frothies after a round of Golf. He wisely decides to keep his smart-arsed whinge to himself, as Chloe is now looking like a soldier about to land on the beach and deflect machine-gun fire in an effort to find Private Ryan.

Pete can tell that Chloe is going to submerge herself in the ghastly underworld of browsing-related aggression. “If they have sold out of sexy Santa lingerie at Peter Alexanders I am going to fucking shit”. Pete is horrified. Oh, the horror.

Chloe drags Pete from shop to shop while he stands awkwardly and often gets in the way of an angry woman picking through items like Chanel No.5 wearing bumblebees trying to find the best pollen on a flower of broken dreams. Pete bravely suggests he will go and grab some Boost Juices and meet Chloe back in Myers in 10 minutes. He walks towards Boost Juice and is stuck behind slow-walkers, fat-roamers and diagonal-drifting cuntbuckets. Some walking tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter lights up a smoke and assaults Pete’s face with a cloud of his own ill-health. “I fucking hate you”, Pete mutters under his breath as he punches it through a gap, knocking into some elderly lady in the process, “don’t fucking care”, Pete thinks as he orders some juice from a sickening personification of a ray of sunshine working at Boost. “Have a peachy day, PETE!”

By the time Pete catches up with Chloe, she has smashed her credit card on gifts mainly for herself. “Hold these”, Chloe growls as she passes Pete a few bags of Dusk scented candles. Now, Dusk candles are a gift that Pete understands well. Whenever a bloke doesn’t know what to get a girl in their life, they resort to T2 boxes, Dusk Candles or some greasy shit from the Body Shop that they will eventually use to wank with when their girlfriends turn down sex in favour of watching the latest episode of Packed to the Rafters.

Pete will never understand Chloe’s shopping ability, much in the same way that Chloe will never know the pleasure of a toilet-wank to a Pornhub movie while enjoying the age-defying properties of a Raspberry & Almond body scrub. Magic.