It's good to know that in a consumer world which so often leaves us spoilt for choice, I can't seem to find a bloody thing I want to buy.

That's certainly the case when it comes to furniture. With much leaning over books to be done during the next few weeks, I devoted a portion of today's revision time to buying a desk. It's something every young bachelor should have, but I've been holding out since moving in the hope I'll eventually see just the kind of desk I'm after; nothing fancy, no sliding gimmicks and glass panels to collect the dust - but a good, solid desk that's the right shape and colour for me.

As yet, nothing has come to find me, so I decided I'd throw myself at the mercy of Reading's plethora of cheap furniture stores, who'd surely be thrusting so many eligible desks in my direction that they might manage to surprise me. After all, you can hardly enjoy an ITV programme these days (ain't that a fact) without at least four outlets falling over themselves to push perennially discounted furniture your way, so surely this would be a quick and painless solution?

Finding those outlets certainly wasn't difficult. In Reading, as in most places, they hunt in packs on modern retail parks just outside town. They're all there, DFS, MFI, Furniture World, Homebase; all of them, the Auntie Wainwrights of the flat-pack age, waiting until you come close enough to have something sold to you.

Though it wouldn't be a desk, apparently. Not only were pickings slim in terms of what I had in mind, but desks in general seemed to be in short supply. Yes, there were a few in-store, but they all seemed perfectly comfortable with their topping of papers and telephones, as did the assistants sat behind them, who hardly put themselves out to help me with my mission. They were probably too busy planning for Boxing Day.

Perhaps I've underestimated the popularity of the forthcoming Certificate of Professional Competence in Passenger Transport exam, which could explain why there just aren't enough desks to go round? Or perhaps these out of town horror-stores are just as rotten as the few desks they actually offer for sale? 'Outlets' in every sense of the word.

Accelerated by the need to lean on something, I resorted to visiting the Argos catalogue online (the paper version isn't smelling the same, these days), hoping that the quickest of fixes may still be found. Wrong. Plenty of desks, some quite reasonable, but for anything up to 36 days they exist only in pictorial form.

Above is the billing for the one which would arrive soonest. It's clearly a small flat-packed item, by definition easy for both the manufacturer and supplier to store. Yet, Argos (like so many others today), seem to have subscribed to the idea that, rather than making every effort to keep the stores themselves well-stocked, they won't even bother to offer the option of store collection. Instead they'll allow the customer to endure the inconvenience of a long wait. So much for choice.

I grudgingly accepted the inconvenience, and paid the money.

But hang on, how much money was that, exactly?...

Look closely, and you'll see that, not only am I being forced to wait for the desk to be delivered when really I'd prefer to collect it myself, but I'm also being charged for the privilege. Aren't I a lucky boy?

I'm reminded of a glorious email we once received on the evening show at BBC Bristol. It came from a listener who claimed to have sent it to his local B&Q store:

Come Wednesday afternoon, I shall read it time and time again throughout the five hour window I've been forced to write-off, sitting at home, waiting for my 'convenience' shopping to come to fruition. £4.95 well spent, I say.

Perhaps I should buy a chair and really make a day of it.