My favourite clothing retailer has slipped away to the giant wardrobe in the sky, leaving me with some fond memories of purchases gone by.
I only ever entered his shop when the big four-letter word was slashed across the windows because there's a limit to what a bloke will spend on clothes. But whenever I saw S-A-L-E, I was in there like a shot.
The transaction always went something like this:
Me: I just need a shirt.
Him (handing me one): This is a shirt.
Me: So it is. Perhaps I'd better try it on.
Him (thrusting his hand through the changing booth curtain): These trousers would go a treat with it.
Me: But I don't want trousers.
Him: Try them.
Me: Yes, they look great. I suppose you'll try to sell me shoes now.
Him: Yes, these ones would be perfect. And we'll need to replace that daggy old belt.
Me: But I've only paid for 10 minutes on the parking meter.
Him (whizzing outside with a large coin): I'll take care of that.
Me: I only wanted a shirt.
Him: Jacket? This one is very you.
Me: You're right. And a perfect fit.
I should point out here that this was never a hard-sell situation. The whole transaction took place in a spirit of great fun: two blokes taking the mickey out of each other and themselves. And smiling the whole time.
He knew what I wanted, too. He knew that, in general, ordinary was out. No grey, no fawn, no navy. And over a number of S-A-L-E-S he sold me every type of menswear there is. Except one and here he may have been looking after me.
At Napier's fabulous Art Deco celebrations on the weekend I saw many blokes - particularly the younger ones - trying to counter the upward pull of braces by a downward tweak of their "region". My retailer only sold me belts. Never braces.
Nor did he shower me with platitudes or untrue compliments.
He never told me, for example, that any item of clothing made me look slim.
In fact, the only references I recall from him about my size were something along the lines of "OMG, that's quite a guts!" and "We're going to have a tough job covering all that."
But the best fun came with the final haggling.
Suddenly we were transported to a Middle Eastern market.
I didn't want a "very good price", I wanted "an excellent, rock-bottom price."
Him: But they're already marked down in the sale.
Me (holding up a hand like a policeman stopping traffic): No more. That does not concern me here.
Him: Okay, I'll throw in this handsome Panama hat - you'll need that for the summer - and these novelty socks.
Me: AND another 20 per cent and another coin in the parking meter for time is whizzing by.
And we would stand at the counter working out possible prices and additional inducements, a process so lengthy and complicated that I felt compelled to halt proceedings and stand aside every time another customer needed attention.
I didn't want them being held up or thinking they were in Beirut.
Then it was back to our transaction. He was folding things neatly and slipping them into branded bags.
I was tapping away on the calculator and offering complicated profit and loss formulae and he was lamenting his loss of profit, bemoaning the cost of his overheads, wondering how he would house and feed his family ("We already live in a cardboard box"), wringing his hands in gestures of extreme loss and suffering.
The bloke who had come for a shirt, now laden with packages, would waddle awkwardly towards his car to load up the back seat with his purchases: several shirts, trousers, socks, jacket, belt, shoes.
From the shop doorway just down the road, a voice would waft: "Wait. You'll need a tie. This one. Very special price."
Thanks, Des. I doubt that buying clothes will ever be that much fun again.
Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, a writer, public speaker and musician.