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Why would you want to buy two small pots of Marks & Spencer pasta salad for the price of one and have to deal with twice as much irritating packaging?

Not to mention all sorts of other bargain combinations that give you a headache just trying to work out if they're bargains at all. It must be a sales ploy that works, because they all do it. All the shops at Heathrow's Duty Free do this toofer-one thing - WH Smith, newsagents: "Buy two paperbacks for the price of one." So you choose the one you want then make unnecessary decisions about another one that you really don't want.

And blow me down if the Harrods (omg, I forgot to buy something for my niece/boss/tea lady and the flight's already boarding) shop doesn't do it as well. I always visit what toff Brits call Horrids (bit tacky, madly overpriced) because I'm a sucker for their sage-green plastic bags with the gold logo. So what do I find? A stack of ballpoint pens with tiny teddies on the end, threefer-two.

Maybe it's a UK thing. Sadly I'm not sufficiently well travelled to know if they do it in Turkey or Tajikistan International - but it wouldn't surprise me, the enforced mental arithmetic at least prevents death by boredom during interminable stretches between interconnecting flights.

That week I'd had four hours to kill at Gatwick. Twenty minutes of it went in a queue for an earlier flight. "Fifty quid to make the change, still gotta pay the fare on top." So, three hours 40 still to go.

For a while I watched a large lady in a bulging pencil skirt and teetery heels herding travellers like a border collie. "Any more for Marakeeeesh?" she blasted into her crackly walkie-talkie. I wonder if they do toofer goods in the markets of Marrakesh - in fact, I wonder if they do toofer flights, so you might find yourself flying off to a pair of destinations at the same time. I checked the flashing boarding list for options - Genoa, Budapest, Harare (inauspiciously cancelled), Izmir, Split, Monastir . tempting, but I think I'll stick to Dublin.

A person is not attractive in transit: crumpled, bulging, uncleaned teeth, smelly socks. A bit Boeing-beaten myself I headed for the Ladies, queued another 20 minutes while mothers-of-three crammed the tribe into one cubicle and everyone battled with the no-touch sensory hand-washing/drying devices.

I didn't want to eat or drink anything in case I had to go to the loo again, so for diversion I headed for Planet Duty Free. Two girls were getting their faces made up courtesy of benefitcosmetics.co.uk - for whose benefit was not clear - and an elderly blonde with an indeterminate accent gave me a fragrant squirt of Lacoste's new Touch of Pink and a knowing wink.

Obscenely outsized triangles of Toblerone were selling, yup, threefer-two. There was even season's end saver sets of factor 60 suntan lotion. Guess there's sense in travelling late summer. Fat Face boutique was also having a 50% sale on skimpy, see-through "perfect for Thailand" dresses - not a good mix with the Toblerone, I thought.

There is nothing I need in Duty Free - ever. The spangled floor, the Hollywood lighting, gel-haired assistants, fancy-schmancy packaging - nothing can persuade me to fall for all that stuff.

But, just as my last half hour was ticking by, I came across the champagne section - oh joy. Vibrant in marigold, padded cladding, edged with a leather luggage label and a neck cuff was an irresistible bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Next to it was a travel pack, complete with two glasses, of Taittinger Prestige Rosé.

And - will you look at that - the price was exactly the same as my flight to Dublin! I didn't ask, because I dared not, but I did wonder if I could trade my ticket in for the bubbles.