I'm not living. I'm just killing time.

The world of commerce is no place for the chronic misanthrope. Humans are bad enough, but once you've seen the things they spend their pennies on ... well, the temptation to scythe into one's wrists with the jagged end of a till roll is difficult to resist. For over two months now, I've slumped over a sales counter, brain putrefying, rictus grin, attempting to telepathically will The Public out of the shop so I can continue to surreptitiously read The Economist, perched out of sight below my desk. I can't take much more. I really can't.

And, thankfully, I don't have to. In twenty days time, Andy and I depart for Quito, Ecuador; on March 3 we begin a four-week stint volunteering as bear-trackers in the cloud forest region of Intag, to the north-west of the capital; and then it's a slow trundle down through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, and, finally, Brazil for a flight home from Rio de Janeiro on June 30. I've wanted to do this ever since I read One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was seventeen. And now it's so close. I'm so close to never again having to propitiate the exchange of currency for Jeremy Clarkson books. So close.

But before I go, since I will be studying - sort of - bears, now seems as good a time as any to present my findings on another mammal: the human. Because apart from boning up on the political ramifications of an economic recession on Canadian Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, (it's going to make this his toughest year yet, but he might pull through because the opposition Liberals are in such disarray - apparently) amateur anthropology has been my only distraction during the interminable sedentary hours of my working week.

If you look close enough and long enough at us humans when we are shopping, you'll soon become submerged in the big, black, numbing idiocy of the world. It's all there in microcosm; in the avaricious glint in the eye of someone who spies a discount; in the moronic grin of the man who asks for twenty five scratchcards; in the sweaty pallor of the woman excitedly purchasing part 108 of Build the Bismarck.

What's that? Does that customer's slightly apologetic whine when she asks for a plastic bag epitomise the West's langurous attitude towards firm and fast ecological action? I think it does, I think it does. Is there a vestige of the intractability of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict in that man's hesitation over how many packets of Shrek stickers to buy? Well, no. But you've got the right idea.

Anyway. I have extrapolated, of course, from the small sample of shopping humans available to me; but i do not feel that this in any way attenuates the potency of my conclusions.

Observation the first: The Human Creature Is Painfully Homogenous

One does not expect to be inundated with original witticisms when ensconced in retail environs. Really, one does not. But around the fiftieth time someone asks for "a winning lottery ticket", or informs you that they don't need a bag because they've "already got one at home", you begin to realise that something is amiss. They're all telling the same jokes. And, worse, the same ones are telling the same jokes week after week after week. And it's not just the jokes. It's everything. Nobody ever says anything funny. Nobody ever says anything different. It's the same hackneyed brainfrizz time after time. Don't you realise that a hundred people have said that joke already today? Don't you realise that I am leering at you malevolently under these clenched lips every time you say it? Can't you see that you're killing me; you're killing me with your words and your eyes and your face. OH. GOD.

But there are exceptions ...

Observation the second: The Human Creature Is At Its Worst When It Believes Itself To Be 'Wacky'

You see, there are rare occasions when dialogue with the shopping human moves outside the realm of repetition. This occurs when you encounter a shopping man - always a man - who believes he is a 'character'; a shopping man who believes he is 'wacky', is a 'right one', is someone who 'cannot be tamed'. There are few things in the world as awful as this niche demographic of human. Below are some tips on dealing with them:

Do not humour the creature. Do not smile. Try to act confused or belligerent when confronted with the creature's 'antics'. Do not attempt to begin another task; the creature will take this as a cue for a joke, or to hang around longer. Retain eye contact. Under no circumstances say anything that even resembles an expletive. Do not allow your eyes to pass over a woman; the creature will view this as a chance to inform you of their experiences or affectations with regard to the opposite sex - in a conspiratorial whisper. Do not point out that the woman the creature is referring to looks around 17. Do not point out that the creature must be over 70. Do not throttle the creature. Try not to black out. When you do black out, drink some water, suck a mint, and prepare for the next one, for he may come at any time.

Next time: more observations. Soon after: dispatches from South America.

Twenty days to go. Twenty days.