My black jacket, an item which is as much a part of me as the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, finally died yesterday. With the lining ripped to shreds, another large tear in the shoulder and the constant exuding of dozens of malodorous smells picked up in pubs the length and breadth of London, I consigned it to a litter bin on Oxford Street – to the cheers of my girlfriend, who won't allow the thing further into her house than the hallway – and made it my task to find a new one. It's not easy, being on the spherical side and going clothes shopping. Others surely have it worse than me, but in shop after shop you see beautifully cut jackets hanging off slender plastic models, a display which is completely useless to me as someone who needs to find out what beautifully cut jackets look like hanging off someone about the size and shape of Christopher Biggins. I walked impatiently down Regent Street, cutting in and out of stores in which overeager staff outnumbered and in some cases overpowered the few Bank Holiday male clientele. “No, I'm fine, thank you” became my mantra. I tried on a jacket which cost a horrific £125 but which nevertheless looked promising, but as I tried the Extra Large size on in front of a smirking Oriental sales assistant, I discovered that it was so viciously tapered in at the waist that it made it look like some kind of restraining vest for the mentally subnormal and physically violent. “I'm sorry,” said the assistant. “No, no, it's my fault,” I replied, pointing at my tummy, at which point he looked away with his nose in the air. Anyway, there's no punchline, really. I found a jacket in Next for £49.99, and almost fitted in the “medium” size. Which just goes to show, er, something or other. That fatties shop in Next, perhaps.

As a Bank Holiday treat we then walked through Piccadilly (not a treat in itself, I know) and down to the Royal Academy to seize the last chance to see the Tamara de Lempicka exhibition, which, as an undisputed expert on 20th century art, I have decided to describe as “nice”. Then to Fortnum & Mason's for tea, but we were 2 minutes late and were thus denied our overpriced scones. So to the New Piccadilly Cafe, by all accounts on its last legs, where we had 2 hot chocolates and paid double for them, hoping to stave off the arrival of their bailiffs for just a little a bit longer. Then to the new Virgin Megastore where I impressed the staff at the checkout by buying the Best Of Chicago and Supertramp's “Breakfast In America”. “Wow. Those are some great records you're buying there. Hope you like them,” were 3 sentences that they did not utter.

I felt horribly queasy overnight, and logged onto MSN at 2am to find poor, unsuspecting who then became an online sounding board for my ailments. He improvised admirably as the Northern Irish branch of NHS Direct, saying “Mmm” and “I see” a lot, and finally, anticipating his diagnosis, I logged off, took a couple of Aspirin and tried to forget about it.