Even a small freezer unit would expand my storage options, but a standard-size fridge is all I have space for.

And when I'm out shopping, availing of any of those three-for-the-priceof-two special bargains isn't an option . . . unless we're talking items of Oxo cube proportions.

Frequent forays to the local grocery store are, for me, the inevitable consequence. Given that the nearest supermarket is one of those vast and ghastly 24-hour ones, dropping by to pick up the few staples that feature on my grocery list can be a surreal experience.

The place is a highceilinged hangar. Grimfaced shoppers manoeuvre gigantic trolleys as big as small cars down what seem like mile-long isles with reckless disregard for anyone sufficiently suicidal to risk crossing their paths.

The bank of check-out counters is reminiscent of rush hour at the M50 toll plaza . . . except the pace is slower and the traffic never seems to dissipate.

And why is it my misfortune to invariably end up behind the one shopper in the queue who insists on packing each of their purchases with the slow and careful precision of a miser counting money?

When I do finally make it to the top of the queue, I can usually count on one errant item refusing to scan, necessitating a five-minute hiatus while the assistant goes off to pick up a more obliging replica product.

All this exasperation persuaded me to exploit the round-the-clock aspect of the service by dropping by in the dead of night.

Here, I thought, would be a chance to traverse the aisles at my own unhurried pace, stopping to consider the skyscraper display of beans, and to stroll, far from the madding crowd, past the rows of boxed breakfast cereals, all the while contemplating the comparative benefits of the multiplicity of hi-fibre and low-salt options on display.

Arriving after midnight, I find, of course, the reality to be something different.

Inside, it's like a day at the dodgems. Cleaning staff are taking advantage of the decongested aisles to drive buffers as big as army tanks across the polished floor at breakneck speed.

There may be no more than a dozen customers on the premises, but with only one check-out assistant on duty the queue is as lengthy as during daylight hours.

Lately they've installed 'self scan' machines. Tailormade, I thought for us '10 Items Or Less' apartment dwellers. Trouble is, these prototype machines are mercurial to a maddening degree. Every second day, it seems to me, there's an 'Out Of Order' sign up.

"They're proving very popular, " a supermarket spokeswoman assured me cheerfully. "They're particularly suited to your convenience shop."

Nothing in her tone suggested she was anything other than deadly serious.