In the great struggle that is life, one can be certain of two things. Taxes, and that it's fucking impossible to find the right size jeans. I kid you not; I have spent the last year trawling through high-street shops, asking only for some regular blue denim jeans that actually fit, but it simply hasn't happened.

So first, as advised by a somewhat stylishly dressed colleague, I visited "Republic". To me the name conjures up images of white marble and toga clad senators but clearly this hadn't been the theme they'd had in mind. I wandered in to find a a wide variety of clothes - most of which seemed like stuff out of a 15 year old's 'Indie Look' catalogue - but, alas, no blue jeans.

So, my next stop was TK Max. Despite the fact that I have been literally laughed at upon disclosing the fact that I shop for clothes there by only moderately trendy peers I've always thought you could find some good stuff there.  So I searched with cautious optimism, and to my lack of surprise, there before me was a whole rack, specified 'Jeans'. What they didn't specify was 'Jeans - for giants.' I didn't even have to dangle them in front of legs - they were gigantic. I am an uncomfortably tall person (6'1/6'2) so I genuinely wonder about the height of the customer these jeans were constructed for.

Next to 'Hollister'. When I first saw Hollister I nearly walked straight past it. I'd always assumed that businesses attempt to let you know what wares they are peddling, and this one was attempting nothing of the sort. It had a black facade with a chandelier overhanging the entrance, and dark windows which revealed nothing of the interior. As such I'd always figured it was some kind of marginally trendy bar a la Old Orleans. Still, my sources had informed me otherwise and as such I delved in. Inside it was just as dark as it appeared from outside, so presumably the buying and selling worked on some kind of lucky-dip system. Gambler though I am, I didn't think under these circumstances I was getting the correct pot odds and as such left, again empty-handed.

Moving onto H&M. When I got in here I was pretty pleased with the outlook. Nice, neat, sensible rows of clothes, all fully illuminated. I meandered between them and at last before me was a whole raft of jeans, many of which were blue. "Fucking yes. My strife is nearly at an end. At last I'll be able to wear a black shirt (having lived off sorta navy/dark purple jeans) in public again!" So, after about thirty minutes flicking through each individual pair of jeans (Come on 32/30... 32 fucking30!!!) I settled for 32/32. Not that I was happy about it. And not that they fit.

Exhausted by my day's hard labour, I stumbled towards a final place; one that I thought I'd left behind years ago. (Primark) Still, perhaps it could help me out.
"Come on, we were partners once. For old times sake..." I implored. Well, sadly Primark seemed to follow in the line of the Corleone family on that sort of thing. "Sorry Salvatore, can't do it."
Woe betide me. It seems I am doomed to forever wander, tripping all over the place on the hems of my over-length trousers.

On the plus side however, I did remember that I needed some socks. (Well, clean socks.) Seeing the sunny side, I gladly scooped up a pair and headed to the tills. Or at least, where the tills had been in days of yore. Now they'd been replaced by something called a 'cash and wrap.' Interested, but not enough to find out, I wandered off in search of a till. "Hmm, can't find any round here." Maybe they're upstairs. Nope..." By now I was near tears with frustration, but determined to win just this small victory. "OK, think Peter...Cash and wrap. In a shop cash only comes into play when a customer wants to purchase an item." That must be it. But (inspecting wallet) "card.......NO FUCKING CASH!!!""

In a testament to how desperate I'd become, I swallowed my diffidence and asked a member of staff,

"Excuse me, where are the tills?"

"Over there", pointing to the 'Cash and Wrap' sign.

"Err, can I pay by card?" I asked.

"Eh? Obviously", dispensed with dismissive derision.

"Well what's with the 'Cash and Wrap' sign?" beginning to elocute my frustration.

"I don't know."

"Well then shouldn't the the sign say, cash, and card, and wrap?" at last thinking that I'd got my little piece of the world where I wanted it.

"I don't know."

Fucking hell. From now on I clothes shop online.