Whatever is stressing you as you push your 178 toilet rolls, 115 containers of milk and that barbecue meat pack on special to the checkout mayhem just relax.
Look around. Everyone's in the same boat. Nobody's going anywhere fast. We'll all get there in the end and it'll be fine.
Why not have a bit of fun and a laugh while you're waiting?
Why not invite the person next to you to dance? Go on, I dare you.
Imagine the Christmas shopping stress being relived for 60 seconds by you and a complete stranger suddenly going all Fred and Ginger.
You just know some teenager is going to get you on their phone camera. Before you know it you'll be an internet sensation and Good Morning America will want to interview you live in New York. What a tale for the kids. They might not believe you but you'll have the proof forever.
An aside here, if stress relief is the aim it could be just as much fun asking a teenager to dance.
Obviously there's some sensibilities to apply to such approaches but the sight of a hoody-wearing teen either squirming with embarrassment at the request or entering into the spirit of things and boogeying down with grandma in their chosen dance style would certainly lift my spirits. But I digress.
All it takes is one person to start it. It could be you.
Mind you, it could be me and Mrs P.
My family has a history of such things. Many years ago my parents caused me trolleyloads of embarrassment by spontaneously dancing to the piped music in a supermarket.
They didn't care. Nor did the people who clapped and cheered as they dipped and whirled around. It took the stress of shopping away for three minutes.
Of course mum and dad were reasonably sharp dancers. Those who know Mrs P and I will know one of us has two left feet and the other doesn't write this column.
But I'm gonna give it a go. I figure if I can't handle a ballroom technique then I'll do that scene from Dirty Dancing. You know the one, right at the end where he holds her high above his head like she's flying.
We'll make sure there's room in the baked beans aisle and Mrs P will come running towards me and leap into a full blooded dive. Obviously I'll catch her and lift her high as the crowd erupts . . . either that or my arthritic shoulder will give way and we'll go crashing into the cans of beetroot and asparagus.
Anyway it'll be a laugh.
So, it's sorted. Less stress for all ahead.
There's only one thing. I haven't told Mrs P yet.
Keep it to yourselves.
