Logged on to the site of A Certain Well Known Food Retailer Who Shall Remain Nameless. Immediately, I am presented with a bewildering selection of comestibles and consumables, all just a mouse-click away from my virtual shopping basket. Get in! This is cool 11:02 a.m. Realise that I am actually missing the human contact. It’s always fun watching someone making a life-or-death decision over what colour of bog roll to purchase. Or sniggering at the shell-suited fatties loading up their trolleys with 10kg bags of frozen chips, 48 packs of BSE-burgers and crates of cheap lager. Not to mention the obvious charms of that pert young checkout girl. 11:09 a.m. Gina is really getting on my tits. She is the "virtual shop assistant" who seems to pop up on my screen every thirty seconds, flashing her 100-megawatt grin and offering totally useless advice. 11:13 a.m. I can feel my enthusiasm rapidly away as I’m confronted with yet another daunting selection of foodstuffs. I honestly had no idea that there were so many different types of cheese to choose from. 11:21 a.m. Is it really strictly necessary to show a full screen, three dimensional image of a tin of sodding baked beans It took ages to download. The realisation dawns on me that in the same space of time I could have gone out to the corner shop, bought the sodding beans, heated them up, toasted some bread, eaten it and done the washing up. It’s a disturbing thought. 11:46 a.m. I finally complete my shopping and log off, but not before leaving my suggestion in the site’s guest book that Gina is terminated immediately with extreme prejudice. It’s actually taken me longer that if I had done it in the real world. No matter the fact that it will soon be delivered directly to my doorstep will more than make up for that. 11:49 a.m. Back in bed. I’m trying to rest, but every time I close my eyes, I see a grainy image of a wedge of Wensleydale. Feel slightly nauseous. 12:16 p.m. No sign of the delivery van yet. 12:55 p.m. Still hasn’t turned up. 1:39 p.m. Getting a bit fed with waiting. 2:01 p.m. I can feel malnutrition gnawing at my insides, so I decide to grab a sandwich from the corner shop. Unfortunately, I’m stuck behind some doddery old gent who’s picking up six back issues of Incontinence magazine, and insists on paying for them with 2p pieces from an old sweetie jar. 2:08 p.m. The delivery van called while I was in Mr. Singh’s. The driver has left a postcard saying he can either return at 4:30, or instead I can collect my shopping from their collection depot. My brain is numb with hunger. I decide on the second option. 2:35 p.m. The depot turns out to be on the other side of town, so I have to get there by bus. I pick up my four carrier bags, and stagger back to the bus stop, the cheese-wire-like handles of the bags digging deep into my flesh. 4:27 p.m. I eventually get home precisely three minutes before the deliveryman was due to call back. I have blisters the size of 50p pieces on my hands, I’ve coughed up ￡1.95 on bus fares, and I’ve spent a great total of two hours and thirty-nine minutes doing my shopping. And I still forgot to get the milk. The author spent ______minutes shopping online.