The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic

Then a brilliant thought occurs to me. I need to get a curry recipe for my home-made takeaway, don't I? David E. Barton says recipe books are a waste of money. He says you should use the recipes printed on the sides of food packets, or take books out of the library. But I've got an even better idea. I'll go into Smith's and copy out a curry recipe to make on Saturday night. That way, I can go into a shop – but I don't need to spend any money. Already I'm scrambling to my feet, reaching for my coat. Shops, here I come!

As I walk into Smith's I feel my whole body expand in relief. There's a thrill about walking into a shop – any shop – which you can't beat. It's partly the anticipation, partly the buzzy, welcoming atmosphere; partly just the lovely newness of everything. Shiny new magazines, shiny new pencils, shiny new protractors. Not that I've needed a protractor since I was eleven – but don't they look nice, all clean and unscratched in their packets? There's a new range of leopard-print stationery which I haven't seen before, and for a moment I'm almost tempted to linger. But instead I force myself to stride on past, down to the back of the shop where the books are stacked.

There's a whole array of Indian recipe books, and I pick up one at random, flicking over the pages and wondering what sort of recipe I should go for. I hadn't realized quite how complicated this Indian cookery is. Perhaps I should write down a couple, to be on the safe side.

I look around cautiously and take out my notebook and pen. I'm a bit wary, because I know Smith's don't like you copying down stuff out of their books. The reason I know this is because Suze once got asked to leave the Smith's in Victoria. She was copying out a page of the A-Z, because she'd forgotten hers – and they told her she had to either buy it or leave. (Which doesn't make any sense, because they let you read the magazines for flee, don't they?)

So anyway, when I'm sure no-one's looking, I start copying out the recipe for 'Tiger prawn biriani'. I'm halfway through the list of spices when a girl in WH Smith uniform comes round-the corner – so I quickly close the book and walk off a little, pretending I'm browsing. When I think I'm safe, I open it again – but before I can write anything down, an old woman in a blue coat says loudly,

'Is that any good, dear?'

'What?' I say.

'The book!' She gestures to the recipe book with her umbrella. 'I need a present for my daughter-in-law, and she comes from India. So I thought I'd get a nice Indian recipe book. Is that a good one, would you say?'

'I really don't know,' I say. 'I haven't read it yet.'

'Oh,' she says, and starts to wander off. I ought to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business – but I just can't resist it, I have to clear my throat and say, 'Doesn't she have lots of Indian recipes already?'

'Who, dear?' says the woman, turning round.

'Your daughter-in-law!' Already, I'm regretting this. 'If she's Indian, doesn't she already know how to cook Indian food?'

'Oh,' says the old woman. She seems completely flummoxed. 'Well, what should I get, then?'

Oh God.

'I don't know,' I say. 'Maybe a book on… on something else?'

'That's a good idea!' she says brightly, and comes towards me. 'You show me, dear.'

Why me?

'Sorry,' I say. 'I'm in a bit of a hurry today.'

Quickly I stride off, feeling a bit bad. I reach the CD and video section, which is always quite empty, and hide behind a rack of Teletubbies videos. I glance around and check no-one's about, then open the book again. OK, turn the page 214, Tiger prawn biriani… I start copying again, and I've just got to the end of the list of spices, when a stern voice says in my ear, 'Excuse me?'

I'm so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to my horror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round i

'This isn't a public library, you know,' he says. 'You think we run a free information service?'

'I'm just browsing,' I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man's finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut.

Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue biro line.

'Browsing is one thing,' says the man sternly. 'Defacing shop stock is another.'

'It was an accident!' I say. 'You startled me!'

'Hmm,' says the man, and gives me a hard stare. 'Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?'

There's a pause – then, rather shamefacedly, I say, 'No.'

'I see,' says the man, tightening his lips. 'Well, I'm afraid this matter will have to go to the manageress. Obviously, we can't sell this book now, so it's our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred…'

Is he serious? Isn't he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn't matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can't buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don't want to go and see the manageress, either.

'Ly

He really is serious. He's looking all pleased with himself, as though he's caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. Oh God. I'll have a criminal record. I won't ever be able to go to America.

'Look, I'll buy it, OK?' I say breathlessly. 'I'll buy the bloody book.' I wrench it from the man's grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else, my heart still thumping hard.

Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and I try to avoid her eye. But she spots me, and calls triumphantly, 'I took your advice! I've got something I think she'll really like!'

'Oh good,' I reply, handing my recipe book over to be sca

'It's called The Rough Guide to India. Have you heard of it?' says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback.

'Oh,' I say. 'Well, yes, but-'

'That's ?24.99, please,' says the girl at my till.

What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn't I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn. Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over.

Shopping is one thing – being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty five quid.

On the other hand, I think as I walk away, that's quite a lot of new points on my Club Card. The equivalent to… 50p! And now I'll be able to make loads of delicious, exotic curries and save all that wasted takeaway money. Really, I've got to think of this book as an investment.

I don't want to boast – but apart from that one purchase, I do incredibly well over the next couple of days. The only things I buy are a really nice chrome flask to take coffee into the office (and some coffee beans and an electric grinder – because there's no point taking in crappy instant coffee, is there?). And some flowers and champagne for Suze's birthday. But I'm allowed to get those, because, as David E. Barton says, you must treasure your friends. He says the simple act of breaking bread with friends is one of the oldest, most essential parts of human life. 'Do not stop giving your friends gifts,' he says. 'They need not be extravagant – use your creativity and try making them yourself.'

So what I've done is to buy Suze a half-bottle of champagne instead of a whole one – and instead of buying expensive croissants from the patisserie, I'm going to make them out of that special dough you get in tubes.