An open letter to .. ... .. My fellow holiday shoppers

Dear Denizens of Edinburgh,

I'VE BEEN meaning to speak to you for some time now, but you know how it is… Then, with the reduction of VAT, and of days before the greed-fest that is Christmas, the chaos out on the streets escalated so wildly that I find I really must come out with it: what the hell is wrong with you lot? Have you no idea of acceptable public manners? No notion of comportment?

We're all feeling the stress. No-one knows if they'll still have a job that will enable them to pay for all the baubles they're jamming into jute shopping bags at a rate of knots. No-one's certain if the emporium from which they've purchased said stuff will be trading long enough to allow for a full refund or halfway decent exchange come 27 December. And no-one knows who'll take over in the Tardis. So, as I say, we're all on edge.

Even so, boys and girls – your conduct is appalling. I see it falls to me to explain how to play nicely. Follow these instructive tips and I won't be forced to start pinching, kicking and screaming at the top of my asthma-riddled lungs.

Walking: think brisk. Do not amble, shuffle, meander, waft, stroll, saunter, ricochet, or – god forbid – stop dead in your tracks on any of the following thoroughfares: Princes Street, Queen Street, Multrees Walk, Raeburn Place, Bruntsfield Place, Morningside Road, or anywhere within the confines of the St James Centre, Ikea, or in the vicinity of Cameron Toll.

Albeit this is the capital, it's also quite dinky. If I, an interloper from America, can memorise the layout of its boulevards, so can you. Know where you're going and march purposefully to that destination. The streets may be snarled beyond recognition, but there's no need to mimic that on its pavements.

Chatting: oh look – the neighbours! Who you see every day! Do not stop to marvel at the remarkable coincidence of both being out shopping. Do not clog the doorway to Zara with your gormless gibbering about the state of Number Four's nets. By December, the only acceptable reason to halt traffic for a neighbourly recce is if you've not seen Number Four for a fortnight and there's a strange odour emanating from his flat.

Doors, escalators, and lifts: what you fail to realise is that these are places of transition, not rest. The moment to decide whether to go left or right is not at the top (or bottom) of the moving stairs – everyone behind tumbles like dominoes, or worse, bunches up on to one step in an unsightly and unseemly pressing of flesh that's best left for the pub later on.

Walk through doors and the entrances to lifts; stride off and away from escalators. Choose a spot some metres away before arresting this forward motion and engaging in a confab about whether to start in kitchenwares or small electrics.

Contemplation: do you live under a rock? Is yours that rare life devoid of television, radio, print media, direct mailing solicitations and the internet? Are you really so clueless about what's in the shops? Do you never speak to your husband, wife, sister, father, whatever? Is your child in a persistent vegetative state?

Not likely. So why the hell don't you possess a list of what to buy and who's selling at the best price? Why are you shrieking into your mobile, soliciting advice at this late stage? Why are you dithering?

That concludes my seasonal lesson. Good luck and godspeed. With an emphasis on the speed.

Yours Sincerely, Lee Randall