It’s early December, the time that many Bath residents dread. Why? For that’s when the annual Christmas Market magically mushrooms from the pavements in a litany of wooden huts, drunken revellers and thousands of visitors from out of town that blocks most of the city centre’s thoroughfares for a number of weeks. To be fair it’s a great spectacle but, should you be so foolish as to attempt to drive anywhere through the city at this time, you’ll be staring at brake lights for what seems like aeons
I’m late and picking up outside Halfords. There’s a tap on the outside of my window from a rather concerned Welsh chap who, like most pedestrians clogging up the place at this time of year, is standing in the road like it ain’t no thing. He’s in boozy fooling, as is his girlfriend who looks like she’s finished off a litre bottle of Lambrini on the coach over the bridge and will kick off if she doesn’t get some Blue WKD, like, NOW!
Me: (Opening the window) Alright there?
Rather concerned Welsh chap: Mate, where’s the Bath Market?
Me: You mean the Christmas Market?
Me: So, where’s the Christmas Market?
Me: (Making an expansive gesture similar to the one Moses made when entering the Promised Land) You see those sheds just there? The ones that are fifteen deep in people cooing over £38 chocolate Santascapes, the selection of olivewood ‘Santa Call Here!’ placards, the steaming flagons of mulled Reindeer piss, that bloke selling wooden bloody ties, and Dave from Twerton inexpertly dressed as Father Christmas and ringing that bell for all he’s worth?
RCWC: Er… yes?
Me: That’s it
RCWC: Oh. Right you are