So I’d purchased what I wanted, my final Christmas present. From a lingerie shop. Not gong into any details as that’s not the issue here. It had all gone without a hitch, no hint of embarrassment or hesitancy, I’m a man of the world after all. But then the nice girl behind the counter presented me with the items in a bag. Not a run of the mill carrier bag but a posh square gift bag with fancy rope handles. Hmmm I said Do you have any regular carrier bags? She wasn’t sure what I meant. I told her I meant the sort of bag a man might fold up and shove into his pocket. She shook her head – they didn’t have that sort of bag only those big square ones.

Now I was faced with the prospect of carrying this dinky pink bag, which proclaimed to every prying, impertinent jackanapes where I’d been shopping and why, through the busy streets. It was the sort of bag a spoilt bimbo might dangle from her forefinger whilst leading a French poodle down Rodeo Drive - not a mundane bag, not the sort of bag that could be carried with a blasé disinterest. What about a plain brown paper bag? I wondered but no they didn’t stock those either. Which is perhaps just as well as plain brown paper might be seen as a little sordid anyway.

You could take the things out of the bag, the girl suggested rather forwardly, and put them in your pocket. I had been thinking along similar lines myself but then the potential for social embarrassment loomed before me – what if these items should become dislodged and begin to trail behind me or even fall to the floor whilst I was furtling around for change in my pocket or become entangled in my fingers when I stopped to mop my brow or give directions. We could deliver she said. Yes but, by its very nature, this is the sort of gift that needs to be presented personally I explained as she gave a sly sidelong glance at her co-worker. Not delivered by a sweaty postman who probably knows exactly what is in there ‘cos he’s peeked - the drooling letch. Plus there is a certain frisson to be gained and certain expectations involved but obviously it was neither the time nor place to go into this with a shop assistant.

There was another alternative which was to simply brazen it out and stroll down the street vivaciously swinging my fancy handbag like Julie Christie. Damn social conventions. But I wasn’t sure I could carry that off, not all the way home anyway. Luckily for me these chosen items were small – not small in the sense of being the wrong size - small as in consisting of not very much at all, so I decided that I would after all thrust them into my trouser pocket where, for security purposes, my hand would remain clenched tightly around them until I got home.