I went into town on Saturday to go shopping, not my favourite pastime but I needed some new shorts for my holidays. I still have some shorts and swimming trunks that date back to early New Romantic times. That doesn't mean they're frilly or anything, you understand, they're just a little dated and tight now that's all.

"Hello there, how're you going, you alright?" said a weedy teenage lad, hovering in the shop doorway as I entered. I paused. He was well-scrubbed but spotty, wearing a shirt three sizes too large for him, his skinny, baby bird neck emerging from the gaping collar. I returned his hello but can't quite place him. He was smiling inanely at me. Was he a neighbour's lad or somebody's kid brother all grown up? I wondered. I stared at him for a moment, slightly embarrassed, hoping it might come to me.

"If you need any help with anything just give me a shout." he added. The bastard, I thought, he's only the bleedin' shop assistant. What's all that about? 'Hello there?' - he doesn't even know me and greets me like an old mate. I'll give him bloody hello. I tipped over a pile of jumpers and re-arrange the displays to give him something to do besides standing around giving out impudent greetings. And get a shirt that fits you spotty get, this is a clothes shop isn't it?

The shorts were all neatly piled up on a table by the door and I soon picked out a nice blue pair in my size. These'll do, I decided, glad that was all over. But as I reached for my wallet I noticed a little old couple hovering dodderily across the other side of the table, the man was frail and well beyond retirement age and surely the next bad winter would see him safely packaged up in a little silver pot. But for the moment he was securely buttoned-up in a beige seen-better-days car coat. But then my eyes were drawn to what he's holding. I froze. Gazing at his trembling, liver-spotted hands I saw to my horror that he was also choosing THE SAME SHORTS! His wife was nodding her approval too, and rubbing the material between her fingers, obviously having reached the conclusion that they are very sensible and quite smart and excellent value too. I cast the shorts aside instantly and fled. What am I becoming? whatever happened to my sense of style and good taste?. I had just come perilously close to buying Old Mans Shorts.

Later, my composure recovered, I gingerly ventured into another, far trendier shop where the music was so unbearably loud that old people simply tutted and scuttled past. Here, the shop assistants were far too pretentiously ultra-cool to even acknowledge my presence, let alone lower themselves to say 'Hello there' and after a brief poke round I soon found what I wanted. Cost me an arm and a leg though, just for a pair of bloody shorts. Bleedin' designer labels.