Apart from the occasional, hypocritical moaning, I don’t really care that my t-shirts may well have been made by some 7-year old girl in Pakistan. Earning a risible wage, Bob (not her real name) prostitutes herself during the hour a day free time she gets, probably and pathetically to the kind of people who own the sweat-shop she calls work.

While far away echoes of “Come on Bob, just do it!” ripple over the continents, I’m quite willing to support the regime if it gives me a good feeling in my wallet. I support this type of injustice, not because I’m callous, but because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t buy the product.

It was a nice surprise, then, when Jo turned up this afternoon with our usual bag-in-box red wine, Ecologica. Not only has it been one of the very cheapest three-litre boxes one can find in Sweden, but, as its name implies, it’s made from organically-grown grapes.

Now the wine has become one even more of a bad-conscience mollifier, since the new packaging also displays the Fair Trade moniker, meaning untold riches to the Argentinian workers involved in giving us (almost) daily pleasure and the occasional headache/temporary regret.

So, with the balance redressed I can finally get those Nike trainers I’ve had my eye on.