THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS OF STUFF

So. What do you get a fifteen year old for her birthday? Thankfully, playing the role of the slightly-unhinged-uncle for fourteen and a half years has left me with a slim advantage - anything goes.

One thing she won't know though, is that I had to go all the way into the town centre, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, at the start of the school holidays, to get it.

"God," I prayed, silently, "Are you absolutely sure you love all people?"

I was slaloming between faces, an endless sea, seething towards me and around me: shopping bags, pushchairs, white trainers, ripped jeans, toddlers being tugged a foot from the floor against their will, and grumpy-looking dads slouching three feet behind.

This, after being in a lift that was so full it verbally warned us that we were overloaded. A giggling couple got out, leaving just a little more room for the guy in the mohair jacket to move away from my squashed nose.

And that, after queuing for half an hour to get into the car park in the first place.

So it was then I found myself au centre ville, and wishing I wasn't. The whole thing is like a temple-complex-to-the-gods-of-stuff. You crawl in, pay your tithe and then the gods of stuff promise you endless happiness in their shimmering window-displays and bikini-clad posters.

There are pilgrimage points to stop and be refreshed of course, while the Monks of Costa and Pret A Manger busy-body around you with a wet cloth.

There are yellow-vested priests who make sure you absolutely are worshipping correctly and are not going home with more than you deserve. And then, in each of the shrines there are long lines of people, just like you, clutching new things in one hand and the hope of the joy they will bring in the other, all on their way to the happily jangling tills, and the mantric chanting of 'next please' and 'can I help you'.

Anyway, I got my niece a copy of a study version of Macbeth, the Scottish Play. My Mum said she needed it for school, but hopefully it might awake a little passion for literature instead of cheeseburgers and oversleeping.

I picked my way back to the car and made my way down the spiral temple exit, feeling a little bit sad that I'm a part of the world owned by the gods of stuff.

"I'm sure," said a quiet voice, deep within, answering my earlier question.

I smiled in the mirror. I guess that's exactly why I'm here.