Patsy Stone I am not.

As it was my birthday last Wednesday I thought it was time to treat myself this weekend to a spot of Retail Therapy. So I woke up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (quite an achievement in itself), and decided to Hit The Sales.

Six hours later, I have returned, bearing nothing for my efforts apart from a Marks and Sparks cafetiere (oh, I am such an Islington Queen!) and a couple of tees. No designer labels. No packages of dodgy white powder. Not even a Best of Steps. Nothing, in fact, which screeches SAD OLD METROPOLITAN QUEER STEREOTYPE to all the other Sad Old Metropolitan Queer Stereotypes on Old Compton Street.

I want to belong, so I tried. Honest, I did.

But I could not find a pair of Converse trainers which I really, really liked.

I turned my nose up at the cut-price DKNY in Selfridges and Dickens and Jones.

Even the 2(x)ist range I came across failed to arouse my enthusiasm.

And you don't want to know what a disappointment the Diesel sale was.

In fact, if it wasn't for the Clarins Beauty Flash and the bottle of poppers I've brought home with me. I'd be scared that I'm turning straight.

I need help.

Gulp. Birthday tomorrow. Again.

After a Certain-Age, they seem to tumble around sooner and sooner and quicker and quicker.

Bread Monster and Little Miss Chile are hopefully going to help me see it through.

I shall be a brave little tinker. I will. I will. Honest, I will.