Single File: Tracey Emin, the English artist, once said you could get a good nanny for €600 a week, which sounds like great value until you remember that you need one for the baby as well.

She has a point. I often wonder at people with children, because I know how hard it is to look after myself, let alone anyone else.

Self-care is laborious. There are so many things you have to do just to stay acceptable. Such as remembering to buy food. Food and living on your own don't seem to go together. Not in the sense of abundance. I did once have three loaves of bread on the go, but two were on the verge of going mouldy and the other was hard.

When you live alone nobody will come in, slam the fridge door and say: "There's no food." Well, nobody except me. But then I have to respond as well. I have to promise to go shopping for one. Sometimes I find seemingly simple tasks such as this one almost

impossible.

Procrastination is a vital weapon in the

fight against shopping. I muddle over a list. In the end it usually reads "food", but sometimes the list is more specific and says "food and a treat".

I muddle over my shopping destination. I live in the city centre and don't drive, so I remind myself that Superquinn and Lidl are out of reach. On special shopping days I take myself to Marks & Spencer. I give myself a break from Tesco, Dunnes Stores and Spar.

But I am scared of Marks & Spencer. As I go down the escalator I can hear the voice of my inner mother shouting. "Should you really be shopping here when you only have €10 in your purse?" it says. "What are you going to do if rich people stand behind you at the

checkout and pile up the lovely food you

can't afford?"

I have worked it out. There should be a bouncer at the bottom of the escalator, a very polite and gentle Marks & Spencer bouncer, saying: "Come along now, open your purse. Madam, can you tell me what you are hoping to buy here with that amount?" "I know," I'd reply. "If you like I won't take a basket. I'll just fridge-window shop."

Eventually, I would sigh and almost smile, and he would beckon to a minder, who would then escort me back onto the street. The minder would shake my hand and wave me kindly on my way.

Or at least they should have a sign: "Enter at your peril ye broke, bad budgeters and ye non-credit-card-owning minority. Ye will see much that ye would dearly like to buy, and

little ye will be able to, excepting perchance some tasteless low-fat wonder foods and some Percy Pigs. For ye will be living beyond your means."

The pain of being broke comes home just too clearly in Marks & Spencer. I don't think they get a lot of shoplifters in there: people just break down and run out, screaming at the wonder of it all.

My not coping seems to rub off on others in Marks & Spencer. I ask a tall, thin, depressed-looking assistant three questions, but he can answer none of them. I break his spirit. I shout at the hearing-impaired

woman on the till. Her badge says she is hearing impaired, but the print is very small, and today I seem to be paying-attention impaired.

Why doesn't it just say "PLEASE SPEAK CLEARLY, DO NOT SHOUT" in capital letters? We are tired, us shoppers. We are living beyond our means in every sense.

I was thinking they should have a basket of badges up at each till, to help you communicate with your seller. I would choose one that says "Kindly redirect to cheaper shop" or, maybe, "Life impaired".

Sometimes in Marks & Spencer I walk around stunned. It uses up shopping time. Sometimes I choose nothing. I queue up anyway. I thank them for their time.

There is so much beauty here.

Next Tuesday: that Saturday feeling