THE modern world is out to get us. Its every effort is aimed at our convenience. Put another way: the modern world is a convenience.

The trouble is that it’s often inconvenient. This has been the experience of some shoppers at Argos, the much-tolerated retail giant (they are all giants just as every Scottish football match, featuring the likes of Stenhousemuir or Albion Rovers, is “massive”).

In a trial at some stores, Argos has removed its emblematic glossy catalogues, leading to riots in several rural areas. The reasoning is pretty sound – more people are shopping online now – but some people loved the catalogues, saying they pacified the children and improved literacy levels.

More apocalyptically, leading worriers say the move could sound the death knell for the bulky general retail catalogue, which has played such an emotionally warming role in so many lives.

When we were wee, Christmas came out of a catalogue, though these old publications appeared seasonally and we got to choose stuff at these times too (toys at Christmas, clothes at other times).

This involved flicking through the glossy pages with vaguely dull excitement and circling items of desire, which presumably had a price limit put on them by our parents, thereby preventing us from ordering lawn tractors for the tenement stair or equestrian equipment to put on the cat.

The whole point of these old catalogues was that you got to pay things up. My Auntie Jessie called it her “club”, much in the way that other people would refer to the Athenaeum or White’s.

The Argos move has also sparked fears about the shops closing down, which would be a shame. I used to deride Argos as being for the lower classes. Then I found myself one of the lower classes and shopping there too.

I was quite excited by the system and, in particular, by the wee pencils with which you noted down the reference numbers for your executive-style sausage-maker or pocket nasal hair trimmer.

I liked getting my ticket and joining the assembled throng on the hard plastic chairs, where we sat and watched for our number coming up on the screen (nearest I got to being on the telly). We could also, in our store, watch for our item coming down a wee escalator. Sometimes, with vague resentment of other customers, we would think: “Ah wiz here before hur”.

I must admit I haven’t bought anything for years – doing my bit for austerity – but I remember it used to be quite good for gym equipment, causing me to suffer a major embarrassment when I ordered weights that I was too weak to carry to the car. Many thanks to fellow shopper, Mrs Dinah McGarrigle, 76, who assisted me in this regard.

Sometimes, however, I have wandered in to absorb the atmosphere of gloomy expectation, flicking through the tethered bibles and their four gospels: the Books of Bedding, Clearance, Storage and Garden Furniture.

The shops are soulless, but in a good way. If you’re feeling melancholy, the best thing you can do is visit such places so you know you’re not alone.

Oddly enough, while I was dictating this article to my butler, a thick Ikea catalogue flopped through the letter box. Twice I’ve tried opening it but found myself mysteriously losing the will to live each time.

It’s because I’m fed up of self-assembly. Same with DIY. Load of nonsense. It should be YDI: You-Do-It. As Fry and Laurie’s busy executive memorably said: “If I want an omelette, I go to an omelette-maker.” But every time I go to Ikea for a wardrobe or bookcase all I come away with is a tin of herring. And I can’t understand the instructions for that.

Ikea is too big for my boots: too much to wander around. At least Argos is on a human scale, but that’s the magic: it looks just like a counter and a fairly small shopping area, but has a massive hidden hinterland containing everything in the world. It’s reminiscent of the Man From U.N.C.L.E. HQ, accessed through the backshop of a tailor’s.

I will say this for the Ikea catalogue: it thrust the store into my consciousness. And, while it’s fair to say a leaflet might have sufficed, it highlighted a difference with online shopping. Online you have to look for stuff. But stuff should have to look for you.

It would be a shame if all shopping went online and, instead of printed catalogues, we had to peruse jumpy screens obscured by invitations to receive a newsletter and some bilge about cookies.

In the meantime, I’m sure Argos will be with us for many years to come and that catalogues will remain available in some shape or form. All for our convenience.