Shopping on a Sunday in Leeds, as most likely on any day, is like an army training course, except everyone is dressed up as if it's a Jean-Paul Gaultier model audition.

I imagine myself strafing from Starbucks to Starbucks, with my credit-card-loaded shot-gun and my royalty-card shield, facing the oncoming marching armies of escapee GAP shop mannequins carrying shopping bags, armed with a minimum of 1 fully charged mobile phone each and a backup can of hairspray.

I bought some trousers that seem to be designed for people who *do* have a 38 inch waist but somehow have the legs of a disabled bulimic boy-scout with a stapled stomach.