[This is a (slightly expanded) London Life column, published in the Standard yesterday - gratifyingly, I have just had a phonecall from an anonymous Selfridges employee telling me of the great pleasure taken in the article by the shop floor staff - and the fury of the management]

Is there any ordeal more dispiriting, more dehumanising, more wretched than shopping in Selfridges?

No.

But for some reason I again found myself alighting at Bond Street and wandering into the place last week. I thought it might be more bearable than normal this time, as I knew more or less exactly what I wanted: a purse (black, oblong) for my fiancee's birthday. I could picture the thing in my mind and Selfridges, which once had a reputation for quality, seemed to be the place to find it.

But Selfridges no longer lends itself to buying anything specific. It now sells itself on experience rather than practicality. So the simple question: "Where would I find a purse?" Is met with the answer: "Everywhere and nowhere" - and you must traipse from stall to dispiriting stall, deciphering the semiotics of branding assessing the gaudy trinkets offered by Louis Vuitton or DKNY.

The shop is therefore aimed at people after Chanel or Gucci as opposed to, say a scarf or a shoe. And what strange creatures these people are; generally young, in couples, with a holiday sort of air to them, a vacant look and indeterminate foreign accent. Perhaps the children of the non-domiciled foreign businessmen who have recently turned our city into their private playground and whom the government are so keen to protect. Watch them buy a chocolate fountain and a pair of Prada loafers: these are the people safeguarding our economy. What do they dream, I wonder, when they go to bed at night?

Having been physically sick at the Versace franchise, I wandered into the more affordable "High Street" bit, full of native females perusing brands such as Oasis. I generally consider myself a bit of a feminist, and I like to think it is this instinct, rather than visceral misogny, that so pains me at the sight of the feminine hordes, fighting eachother for shoes. I would seriously contend that the average British female has no conception of how ugly she looks when shopping.

But she is a victim compared to the staff, who are paid solely to patronise you. All shopping is vile to a degree; but at least a well run store (such as John Lewis) does not assail you with the obnoxious slogans, competing soundtracks and painfully slow escalators. Before you know it, you are in the Smythson's section, wondering plaintively why an ugly green passport holder might be worth £150, then realising that after an hour, you are still empty handed. Unable to face starting again in a new shop, I plumped eventually for a Mulberry purse. Was it what I wanted? I didn't know anymore.

"This is absurd" I said treafully to the cashier as I handed over my card, abject. She pretended not to hear.

"You have coffee with a girlfriend, you get your beauty treatment, your laser or your Botox, and then you buy yourself a gorgeous dress", is how the store's creative director Alannah Weston describes the Selfridges experience. The revolution cannot come soon enough.