I see the appeal in wanting to own one example of everything, like old Weetbix toys, but that suggests you could reach the end one day, and the sudden pointlessness of your achievement could be devastating.
I was once shown a collection of shopping bags from Europe and America in the 1960s, a record of a young couple's first trip overseas. Much like the Oamaru ties, that collection would be worthless, but that was never the point. They meant something to the person who'd kept them.
Rich people can collect valuable things such as art, but that's just upmarket shopping, brand buying by socialites at its worst. I don't knock it, it keeps artists going, but the collectors that interest me have less money to throw around. Instead they have imagination.
The ties interest me, though. That Sparks could collect so many, and in a small population centre, shows how many men are dumping them because they can't be bothered any more.
The one glaring exception is Donald Trump, with his streaks of plain bold red and sometimes blue, which in itself would be enough to turn you off them.
This is a shame, because portly men like him have always been able to use ties as a distraction for the eye to fall on, rather than the nearly-bursting shirt buttons underneath. They look as if you're getting down to business, not just goofing around.
I partly blame wives and girlfriends. Men need to buy their own ties and bond with them, rather than get a gift they quietly think is hideous, but feel obliged to wear. But I also blame the takeover of fashion by clothes to relax in, all day, rather than look purposeful.
Sporty clothes - sweatshirts, trackies, T-shirts - were adopted by teenagers, then their elderly grandparents, who now live in track pants, also grown men who pretend they look younger than they are, and Silicon Valley nerds, who need playpens in their workplace. Tailored clothes dictate how you sit and stand.
You don't look good slouching in them. But cotton knits let you sprawl. This isn't always a good thing.
No man in a good suit looks great with an open-necked business shirt. He just looks as if he can't be bothered learning how to tie his own tie, which is inexcusable.
As an 8-year-old I had to wear a tie every day, and if I could tie a Windsor knot, when I still can't do a forward roll or ride a bike, anyone can.
A tie gives a man's outfit definition, and is a chance for him a chance to express a personality, if he has one.
Some men choose joke ties, which is fair warning. Some like them loud, and some wear obviously cheap and nasty ones, a hint of rebelliousness, perhaps. But sensible men need something in silk to be taken seriously. You only need one, but you do have to keep it clean.
As a formerly slim teenager I found an elegant old man's collection of classic silk paisley ties, and wore them for a while with schoolboys' grey shirts and short skirts.
Later, when my father died, I took home his checked woollen ties from the 1950s, once worn with shirts and grey sleeveless jumpers knitted by my mother. I pinned them to the wall for weeks, a tribute to a time when men made an effort. Why did they stop?
Rosemary McLeod is a journalist and author.
