It is the first week of January and I am still recovering from the excitement of the holiday period. Why is that, you may ask? Did I pull one too many crackers and laugh myself into a stupor at the silly jokes inside them? Did I overstuff myself on festive fare (after breaking my fast of course) and end up feeling like a turkey? Or was it that there were so many fantastic parties to attend and so many fab programmes on the box that I got confused and my head imploded? Er, no.

The fact is that I am still recovering from that 'event' which, like my birthday, promises to be fun-packed and momentous but always causes great upheaval and upset: the annual mad rush/stampede/loss of sanity hitherto known as the January sales (though in reality it begins as soon as the last turkey sandwich has been nibbled on Boxing Day.

I used to look forward to the sales. There was something exhilarating about finding something at half the marked price and knowing that you could come home with twice as much junk. And, dear reader, junk it is. If anyone had thought it was any good it would not have been reduced to clear in the first place.

There used to be a stigma attached to buying things in the sales, a faint stench of poverty emanating from those small bright stickers and bargain bins. But no more. The sales are attended by the bold and brainy who splurge their pennies at the best time, who laugh in the face of high-priced consumerism. And with superstar Cher opening the great Harrods sales extravaganza, the sale has become a kind of final flourish of the festive season, like coffee and chocolates at the end of a meal. Sales are something to look forward to and get excited about - but only if you can wake up in time.

Last year I spoke of my disappointment at missing half-price goodies (clothes, shoes, bedding, etc) in the great Next sale and vowed that I would do better. I wanted to get up early - the sale was starting at seven. Alas, I woke up at eight-thirty and by the time I rushed to Darley Street it was nine-o'clock.

I was expecting a rush, I was expecting madness, I was even expecting the kind of hysteria previously only witnessed at Boyzone concerts. But I was not expecting what I saw, which was a mile of shoppers outside Next standing in the rain, in the freezing cold, some of whom who had been waiting for a couple of hours to get into the store. Oh dear, I thought, and decided I didn't need any clothes after all.

Pah, I said to myself, sales are horrid and just for penny-pinching misers. anyone who goes to them is a mad fool.

Two days later, curiosity got the better of me and I was lucky enough to squeeze into the shop and pick up some last-minute bargains. Pah, I thought feeling proud of myself, these people who pay full price for stuff, they are mad fools.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.