Standing in the middle of a barn of consumerism, located in the middle of an edifice built in honour of capitalism, situated in the middle of a wasteland dubbed suburbia, I'm trying to buy pants. No, not underwear, though buying those is painful too. Trousers. A casual pair, not shiny, not jeans, not part of a tracksuit, not something artificially faded or crumpled or with shotgun holes in them.

"Those are skinny legs." Oh god, a shop assistant. Weak smile.

"Sorry?" I look down at my legs, which aren't in the least skinny.

"Those pants, skinny legs. Everything has skinny legs this season."

"Not me, I'm afraid. Is there somewhere I can get a leg transplant around here?"

"Sorry?" He looks down at my legs. The smile gets weaker.

"Some people don't have skinny legs. And some people don't like shopping. And some people just want to buy a pair of pants without having their senses beaten into submission by 25 metre tall images of pre-pubescent androgynes wearing makeup applied with heavy machinery. And some people are appalled that men in suits sit around on the 102nd floor dreaming up mechanisms to bring about the Gruen transfer, while waiting for their mail-order Russian brides to ..."

I realised I was waving my arms, just a bit. And he was backing away from me, just a bit.

"I don't like shopping."

I wandered off to find Rachel. Women like shopping more, you see. She was standing by the railing, looking down on the swarming crowd of shoppers on the ground floor.

She looked at me and said, "I think I'm going to kill someone."