I felt so much better after my rant against internet shopping last week that I decided to put my feet where my mouth is, however uncomfortable that may be, and get down to the High Street.

I didn’t actually make it that far – my car inexplicably turned towards Bicester Village and then refused to turn back, however hard I protested.

But my visit there did at least prove my theory that shops rock and nothing beats being able to choose and try things on for yourself.

Take jeans shopping – the bane of any man or woman’s life, because however much you enjoy shopping, jeans are a different ballgame and as much fun as removing your teeth with pliers.

Because it’s not just about size, it’s about colour, cut, length and fit – the options are endless, which requires you to spend days in a sweaty changing room taking jeans on and off, on and off, like Jordan’s wedding rings, getting hot and bothered in the meantime.

In fact, they should have a therapy room next door, where once you’re done they can wrap you in a silver blanket and give you a hot cup of tea.

Even me, the consumer Queen, whose shopping delivery driver and I are now friends on Facebook, know that trying to attempt this on the internet is just plain stupid.

It would take you until 2015 to get there, amassing a carbon footprint from here to Brazil in the process. You just have to hold your nose and jump in, rather than dipping your toe in the water, and shops are the only way forward.

I pondered the problem at length, pacing up and down, finger to my lips like Mini Me in Austin Powers, and came up with a genius idea.

Hence my stealthy arrival at Bicester Village at 6pm on a cold, wet night, when the place was virtually deserted, but the shops don’t shut until 7pm.

It meant that instead of running about like a headless chicken ready to pounce on the rare sighting of a shop assistant, I had all of them to myself, waiting to help me. Imagine that!

Even better, I got a helpful one, remember them? So unique you have to treat them like rare breeds. I approached cautiously, told her what I wanted and then waited for her Superman eye lazer to scan me.

Her eyes wandered up and down my body and I could almost hear the computing like something out of Terminator.

Wordlessly she turned and pulled a pair of jeans out of a pile, one of thousands in the Levi’s shop, before heralding me into the changing room.

And how’s this for a result? They fitted like a glove. Unbelievable. Trying to refrain from falling to my knees and sobbing on her shoes while clasping her around the knees and promising eternal devotion, I managed to thank her profusely, paid and left.

You see? Internet, pah.

It’s so yesterday.