BAD news doesn't always arrive in a buff envelope with "Official" or "Inland Revenue" stamped across the top.

It can also come in the plain white variety, carrying no warning about its contents.

Such an envelope found its way through my letterbox a couple of weeks ago. I opened it and must have looked shocked.

"What's wrong?" asked the Mother. "You've gone quite pale. Is it bad news?"

It was, indeed, bad news.

"Sainsbury's, MY Sainsbury's, in Lewes Road, is closing for a week for alterations," I said. "What'll I do? I'll have withdrawal symptoms."

"You mean Sainsbury's has actually sent you a personal letter to give you advance notification of its plans?" said The Mother. "You must be a Very Important Shopper."

Well, I thought, there's personal and personal. There's personal as in: "My darling, I adore you, you are the most wonderful creature on this planet" and there's personal as in: "Dear Mrs Leigh, we'll be closed for business till September 13th so don't bother to drop by 'til then."

"Anyway," The Mother continued, "why the long face? The store's only closing for a week and there's more than one branch of Sainsbury's in Brighton - and what about all the other supermarkets? There's Tesco, Asda, Somerfield, Safeway, Waitrose, the Co-op . . . "

"I know," I said, "but different supermarkets attract different customers. Asda's a magnet for big families with noisy kids, Waitrose is chocker with trendies and gay couples with lots of spending money and the Co-op's where herds of pensioners go to graze.

"Sainsbury's? Well, as a woman who learned to cook at Saint Delia's apron strings, where else could I shop? Anyway, this particular store holds some very fond memories for me . . . "

And it does. It was there I paid a bill with a Visa card for the first time, a sort of financial coming of age. It was also there that the only person ever to recognise me from my picture in The Argus introduced himself to me at the bacon counter.

"Remember that?" I said to The Mother and she did. "He asked you how many years it had been since that picture was taken, didn't he?" she said. Huh!

Despite that, I happen to believe supermarkets are actually great places for maintaining that all-important social contact with one's fellow human beings.

Many's the time a lonely hand has brushed against mine in a box of King Edward's as we have grabbed the same unblemished spud or my fingers have become entwined with those of a complete stranger as we've sorted through the string beans.

Not everyone you see in a supermarket is a stranger, of course. Sometimes you meet neighbours or friends which is all very jolly as long as your trolley doesn't let you down. Hopefully it will be filled with smoked salmon and organic produce rather than cheap own-brand tins of baked beans and packets of dried soup.

It is, of course, social suicide to be recognised by your peers whilst rummaging through clearance goods marked down for a quick sale.

It's also advisable, if you're shopping alone, not to be observed approaching the checkout with a trolley clink-clanking with gin and vodka bottles.

Of course you know, and I know, you're throwing a party but until they get invites, everyone else who recognises you will be muttering behind your back about sad lives and solitary bingeing.

Well, in 24 hours I'll be celebrating myself. MY Sainsbury's will open its doors again and life will return to normal . . .

Oh dear, I think I need a drink.