Retail heaven

I love Boots. It is possibly my favourite common-or-garden retailer, even over the laminated shrine to commercialism that is Argos (never underestimate the appeal of tiny blue pens).

I realised the true extent of my obsession a few weeks ago when I woke up one morning with the beginnings of a truly nasty cold and my first thought was "ooh, good, an excuse to stock up on multi-vits".

My love affair with the high street chemist is, I think, probably a cleverly-devised marketing ploy based on alluring scent of mingling Germolene and half-price Anais Anais fumes, and the idea that somewhere within its shiny white walls lurks the cure for every physical problem one could encounter in life.

That, and the fact that in London you can't walk for longer than a minute without falling into one. Tottenham Court Road, which seems to have been appointed centre of my universe one day whilst I wasn't paying attention, has three.

They are all more or less identical.

Sometimes I worry for the employees, who must surely have difficulty remembering which one they are supposed to arrive at in the morning.

Exactly the same is true of Starbucks, Subway, and those fantastic warehouses of tat that constantly claim to be closing down but never, ever do.

One happy lunchtime trip I visited the entire trinity of Boots branches to be told by, I swear, the same woman in each one that the brand of skin cream I wanted wasn't in stock.

How she had managed to dash ahead between each shop in order to offer me this unique personal service I don't know, but I'm picturing some kind of invisible overhead walkway, or maybe teleportation '“ which I thoroughly believe Boots is capable of, by the way.

In the same way, they are capable of relieving me both of symptoms and of great wads of cash (though I always pay by card, which everybody knows does not count as real money).

The beauty of Boots shopping is that it never feels frivolous or extravagant, but instead masquerades as "just picking up a few bits".

Likewise, one does not undertake pilgrimages to Boots, or even consciously plan to visit, but merely "pops in" by default because you know there's probably something, somewhere, you're running low on.

I am a master of pop shopping '“ or Pop Art as I like to think of it, though, of course, Roy Lichtenstein's consumer habits are unknown and he may have preferred Superdrug.

The other day, it was tights (which I was literally running low on, being at that stage where they've gone bobbly and the crotch is round about your knees).

Pop in, purchase a packet, pop out, done.

Or so I thought. But Boots never make things that simple, no siree. On reaching the tights aisle, I find a three-for-two offer, which seems sensible enough as I get through enough black opaques in a month to mop up an Atlantic oil spill.

This comes to 12, however, which I then discover is only a weeny 3 away from earning a bonus 300 points on my advantage card.

So then I have to find another practical purchase worth exactly this amount, to ensure my pop-in reaches its optimum thrifty potential.

Except, slightly giddy on the thought of all the money I'm saving, I decide to buy a new foundation worth 6 to top up the total'¦which brings me to 18, just 2 away from a bonus 500 points.

Which means it just makes good economic sense to buy that new 7 eyeliner and be done with it.

Suddenly my pop has strayed into thud territory and I've spent 25 without blinking.

It doesn't help that run-of-the-mill cosmetics are all made to sound so appealing nowadays.

Has anybody else noticed that it is no longer good enough for shampoo to just contain soapish chemicals that clean hair, but instead they have to have an ingredients list that includes things like silk, pearls, cashmere protein and tiny pieces of crushed diamond?

Or bizarrely delicious things like cocoa, caramel and caviar, which leads me to wonder if I shouldn't leave the miso soup and just chew my hair for lunch'¦which would free up more time and cash for Boots shopping, after all.

Off I pop.