REALLY, I wish Britain's retail giants would get together and agree some sort of policy about how many bags they use, because it is becoming a source of befuddlement to me.

Oh, the poor youth who offered me a carrier bag today in Tesco – I doubt I'll ever get over the look of disappointment on his face. He had the bag in his hands expectantly, too. I swear there was a tear in his eye when I turned him down.

Maybe I should have taken it and spared his feelings, but one doesn't really need a carrier bag if one is only buying a bottle of fresh orange juice and a copy of the Liverpool Daily Post. Frankly, I'd no more ask for a carrier bag for such a small purchase than I would ask for a laminated rhinoceros.

But such largesse with carrier bags is in sharp contrast with the policy of WH Smith's. Now, when one buys an item, the eager young assistant asks: “Would you like a bag?” When answered in the affirmative, the assistant then points out: “You know there's a charge of 1p?”

Only, it's not the most arduous of disincentives, is it? There must be very few people who would reply: “Hmm, now that puts an entirely new complexion on matters. I have to weigh up the inconvenience of carrying a load of stuff through town like a contestant on Double Or Drop (ask your mum) against the cost of a single penny. Tricky . . . no, I've decided against the bag.”

They should push the boat out a bit, charge a tenner for them.

Even better, maybe the Smith's assistant should say: “Would you like a bag? You would? Then roll your sleeve up and accept a Chinese burn.”

Recently, though, it was all so different. Before the big WH Smith's plastic bag policy change, I was offered one when I bought a copy of Doctor Who Magazine (the one with Tom Baker and the sarcophagus on the front – you know the one). To be fair to the assistant, she probably thought I'd be embarrassed as a grown man, but while I have the potential ability to be shamed, I am effectively unembarrassable. “No thanks,” I said.

Knowingly, she winked. “Yeah,” she said, “Save a tree.” I think she must have seen a plastic bag stuck in one once in Stanley Park, and assumed that's where they came from. Barking.

One place which has got its act together is Gregg's the Bakers, where assistants ask if you would like a bag. It was not always thus.

Every time I go to Gregg's, I am served by a woman. But on one occasion I was served by a man. It's very unusual for a man to break through the glass ceiling there. One occasionally sees them in the back in those white trilby things carrying trays, but it's rare to see one in the shop proper. I asked him for two sausage rolls. He put them in a paper bag. But then . . .

KAPOW! He put the paper bag in another bag. Excess baggage. I have no idea why. Maybe he thought I would be embarrassed as a grown man, buying two sausage rolls. And given the picture you now have of your sausage roll-eating, Doctor Who-loving correspondent, perhaps he had a point.

Just sort it out, Britain's retail giants. Shopping's difficult enough without having to worry about packing etiquette.

I SEE that gadabout Ashley Cole has finally lost the patience of his fair maiden, the lovely Cheryl.

Every cloud has a silver lining. Cheryl will be able to revert to her euphonious old name, Tweedy (there are enough Coles in Newcastle).

She'll also have a massively-reduced insurance premium on her mobile phone. So good news all round.