Living on my own means I don't have to pay attention to the torment that afflicts a lot of people who go away - what to get as gift or souvenir for the family, for the significant other, for the kids, and especially if it's for the latter, something that'll neutralise any "you got that for them....and I only got this" sulk.

What I get is for me. That's all there is to it. For the student in me, it's a book, at least one, usually more, particularly if I've been to the US; for the sartorial part of me, it's a T-shirt.

My wardrobe's jammed with t-shirts I've picked up hither and thither, bearing cryptic slogans in scripts I don't know, so that burst of Japanese characters across one of my favourite t-shirts could well not be the delicate Zen koan I keep telling myself it is. You take your chances that's all I can say.

I do know this, and too well now, size matters. It does, it really does. No one can escape it. Don't try to. It matters with a capital M. I'll explain.

What was marked large in Guatemala City and medium in Milan airport is n't what comes after their first wash in London. Wash 'em, dry 'em, and then try 'em on again, and hope I can still draw breath. They shrink savagely. From man-size to doll size. I've got a handful that throw water on and I'd win a wet T-shirt competition hands down.

Wherever I go next, I'm going to super-size. Go for the size up and build in a shrinkage margin