I NEARLY squashed a student the other day. In fact, I nearly squashed a whole herd of them (or is it a 'slouch' of students?).

After half an hour scouring the shelves at Tesco for something cheap and delicious for tea that required absolutely no effort in the kitchen, I lurched out of the car park at what I thought was a leisurely pace. But it was nothing compared to the students coming out of the sixth form college.

Some of them were walking so slowly they actually appeared to be going backwards.

Life was rushing on around them as normal, but they looked like they were trying to walk underwater in concrete boots.

I actually quite admire the way teenagers loaf about. While the rest of us run ourselves ragged, trying to cram our hectic lives into days that don't seem to be quite as long as they once were, teenagers are happy to lounge around, listening to music, muttering the occasional incoherent phrase to their equally laid-back mate and generally not giving a flying flip about anything.

I envy their lack of hustle and bustle. Unless they are crossing the road in front of me. Then I want to crack their big, shaggy heads together and tell them to get a shift on.

Like very small children, dogs and the odd granny, teenagers appear to have absolutely no idea how to cross a road.

I have had the privilege on numerous occasions to be doing my shopping in Tesco when the sixth form college breaks for lunch and the students descend en masse on the caf and the crisps aisle. And every single time, as I've attempted to leave the car park, I've come across confused looking clumps of young people wandering in the road like bovines with backpacks.

On the last occasion they all decided to cross the road at once, just as the lights turned green. As drivers honked their horns and foolishly waved their fists (activities I declined to take part in), the students simply plodded on their way, safe in the serene cocoon provided by their iPods and hoodies.

Maybe young people should be re-taught the highway code as part of the syllabus at the sixth form college. They could be instructed in the meaning of red and green lights by that fella who tells everybody he's Darth Vader.

Even better than that, how about a Tufty Club for teenagers?

POOR Colleen.

As Shopper of the Year, a title she narrowly pipped me to get (the judges didn't think swapping coupons for cat food was quite the right image), she must have been mortified when her credit card was rejected on her latest spree.

As someone who has shoved piles of shopping into a trolley only to find I've left my purse at home on numerous occasions, I can relate to her predicament.

Luckily the people in the queue behind me have always been very understanding, keeping their moaning and muttering to a dull roar while glaring at me like I've just spat in their tiramisu. I'm sure Ms McLoughlin, girlfriend of the shy, retiring footballer Wayne Rooney, was greeted with less animosity in the queue at Chanel. Although I doubt they actually queue at Chanel. They probably recline on mink sofas instead while assistants scuttle about with piles of platinum cards on platinum trays.

All the same, I very nearly felt sorry for her, until it was revealed what she was trying to buy. A £1,343 belt. That's right, she was spending more than many of us earn in a month on something to hold her trackie bottoms up.

For goodness sake, belt up, Colleen.

Updated: 10:41 Monday, October 10, 2005