Vicky Ewan: is in-person shopping a thing of the past?

It is very difficult to justify the practice of shopping in person these days.

We are constantly bombarded with emails, adverts, and other communications that announce the competitiveness and ease of online shopping, and, I fear, we are becoming apathetic about leaving the house to search for bargains on the high street, fully apprised that, mere taps of a screen away, is all the information one could possibly want about the latest prices, stock availability, and convenient delivery of the products our hearts most desire. 

Gone are the days when Saturdays would represent a full morning and afternoon of shopping in town centres, which would be chock-full of tempting premises in which to spend our hard-earned pennies. 

During my youth, my friends and I would trawl these establishments, purses clutched eagerly in our hands, our faces shining with excitement at the prospect of a coveted item of stationery or fashion accessory, a veritable skip in our steps as we returned home laden with purchases after a happy day's consumer indulgence. 

At that time, there would be a multitude of doorways from one end of the shopping parade to the other that we enjoyed ducking inside, with each venue offering myriad treasures on which to expend our pocket-money: captivating stationers, alluring clothes shops, tantalising music stores; everything three little maids from school could desire. 

Returning home with our pretty fripperies, we would be purring like satisfied kittens - until the following weekend, at any rate, when the performance would no doubt be repeated. 

These days, shopping arcades often seem half empty, their ‘To let’ signs a sad indictment of failing footfall, their whitewashed windows reflecting nothing but blank despair. 

There is less consumer choice, with high streets peppered with charity shops (admittedly, a great draw for my offspring, who have more endurance and a sharper eye for a quality purchase than their impatient mother), betting establishments, and dubious credit-based emporia, as well as throngs of eateries. 

Perhaps we (well, I may be speaking for myself here) are our own worst enemies, bemoaning the lack of choice in shopping centres even as we conduct online searches for the lowest possible prices and resolve to have items delivered directly to our homes, for it seems unlikely that we will be able to have our cake and eat it - especially at one of the aforementioned (and often eye-wateringly priced) cafés. 

Granted, there is much to be said for ordering from the comfort of home: its parameters are not weather, hour, or transport-dependent; it's almost effortless (perhaps catastrophically so); and it takes mere moments - a hugely persuasive consideration in our time-poor lives. 

Nevertheless, at this time of year, I am irresistibly seduced by the prospect of physical shopping, especially as the evenings draw in: the Christmas lights twinkle appealingly, promising something more than materialistic joy; shops bustle once again with festive welcome; folk seem brighter, often humming along to the charming seasonal songs pumping out of every store, smiles abounding. 

Hypnotised by these festive fancies, I have arranged for my husband and sons and I to meet up with our younger daughter for a little retail therapy in the middle of the month. 

My head is dancing with idyllic images of us linking arms and skipping from one warmly-glowing store to the next, our bags brimful of mysteriously shaped packages, our cheeks pinkening in the chilly air as we merrily march along. 

Eventually, purchases complete, and tuckered out by our efforts, we will retire to a cosy corner somewhere to warm ourselves with hot toddies, basking in the glow of a job well done. Unfortunately, I may be mistaking my romantic aspirations with rosy scenes from Christmas films of yesteryear; I suspect the reality may be somewhat different - and far more disappointing: my husband circling the city centre in increasing frustration, utterly unable to secure a parking spot, whilst I tensely check the time every two minutes, my silence ominously conveying the tardiness of the hour; our eventual abandonment of the car in a space so far out of town that we nearly require a bus journey to reach our destination; the interminable queues, frustratingly limited stock, and harried sales assistants in every store we manage to enter; and the ‘closed’ signs confronting us when, finally - a dismal few purchases made, the majority forsaken - we scurry about in desperate search of a café to defrost our numbed extremities. 

I won't let such gloomy expectations put me off though; somehow, I imagine I'll even manage to enjoy myself.