My wife was stranded at Park Beach Plaza all afternoon. Fortunately she's made of sterner stuff than me. I can't spend more than ten minutes in that rats maze of sensory overload, with its resident population of waddling rednecks, rippling folds of tattoos seeping from the gap between their singlets and their track suit pants, pushing a pram or two and leading a winding trail of barefoot foetal alcohol syndrome offspring from one consumer delight to the next, without going loopy.