BLOODY SALES

I realised two things today: one, that White City is nowhere near the West End; and two, that the sales at Oxford Street's finest emporiums are a pile of poo.

I mean, okay, so Paul Smith shirts normally cost £99 and now, whoopee doo, they're a steal at just £65. But that's still three times more than Mr Buyrite, only at least there (does this cheapskate's wonderland still exist?) you don't get served by cocks who look down on you snootily just because your nose is snivelling from the cold and your brow is still sweating from the bike ride there, both bodily juices congealing in mid drip as they twist their way onto the velvet rug below. And well blow me, the only watches on sale at Selfridges are the crap ones. I didn't buy anything. Unless you count the faux brown leather blinds I ordered from John Lewis. They're probably not even the right size for my windows. And they weren't even in the sale. A bad day for shnorrering.