Though I have many faults, and not a few vices, extravagant expenditure on clothes does not number among them. I have a fear and loathing of buying new clothes. Doubtless there’s a word ending in phobia to describe my condition, and for 15 guineas a shrink would tell me what it is. Not that I particularly want my complaint cured, since it has the advantage of considerably reducing expenditure.

Buying clothes is pure humiliation. You enter the shop and find two or three men gathered together in clothes of impeccable elegance. Suddenly everything you are wearing becomes 10 times shabbier than it was a moment ago in the street. Eventually one of these well-dressed people detaches himself from the group, which is apparently discussing the Dow Jones index or something equally important.

As he approaches you his eyes flicker up and down with a mixture of contempt and pity for the sartorial mess he sees in front of him. “Can I help you sir?” he asks, clearly wondering which part of the disaster area you are thinking about replacing. You murmur something about trousers. “Certainly, sir,” he says, with unnecessarily enthusiastic agreement. You are asked your waist measurement. Since (at least in my case) the last time you bought trousers was nearly three years ago, you can’t remember your waist measurement. Even if you could it would be out of date. There’s nothing for it: the tape measure is produced and the assistant gives you a bear-like hug. He looks at the tape measure with disbelief, and then measures again just to check. Then comes the inside leg measurement. You stare at the ceiling.

Hardly has the blush faded from your cheeks when various trousers are produced for your perusal. You pretend to be feeling the texture while you are in fact trying to locate the price tag. You adopt the same policy as in choosing wine in a restaurant. That is to say you do not choose the cheapest but the second cheapest. The trouser-merchant’s face adopts a sneering expression. You think: “How the hell can I get out of here?”

Man trying a jacket on, 1970. Photograph: Daily Mail/REX/Shutterstock

You are directed to a minuscule changing-room. You remove your shoes, revealing a sock with holes. You take off your trousers and try to hang them up. Your loose change cascades from your pocket. While you are retrieving the cash, the curtain is swept aside by the assistant who has the pleasure of finding you on hands and knees with no trousers on. You reflect that Brian Rix at least got paid for being found in such circumstances. You hurriedly pull on the new trousers, abandon the privacy of the cubicle and take up a position in front of the tryptich of mirrors. By adjusting these you are able to see yourself reflected in an infinite series stretching to the crack of doom. Just as you are pulling in your stomach muscles a voice behind says, “How’s that?” in a way which is altogether too much like the appeal of a triumphant wicket-keeper who has just knocked your bails off.

You say you think it’s a bit tight round the waist. “Do you think so, sir?” asks the swine. In fact the trousers fit quite well, now you’ve pulled your stomach in. He pats you here and there. He asks if you would like to try a larger pair. You reject the idea of spending a second longer than necessary in this Centre for Psychological Demolition. “I’ll have these,” you say, hoping that you won’t faint before leaving the shop. He asks if you want anything else. “Shirts?” he suggests, looking you straight in the collar.

All this horror can be avoided by the simple expedient of clothing yourself at jumble sales. These leave the morale unbruised and the bank balance unaffected. Unfortunately I got the date wrong for this year’s jumble sale. What with this and one thing (and another), I recently found myself forced to make my first visit to a clothes shop for some years.

This time I decided to take the offensive. I entered a shop in Oxford Street and looked about me with as much disdain as I could muster. I told an important-looking man that I wanted a bow-tie. Why I said this I do not know, since I had entered the shop with the intention of buying socks. “Certainly, sir,” he said in the standard snotty tone and conducted me to a display of bow-ties. Ready-made. Clip-on. Not the real thing. I waved them aside. Cringingly, the wretch admitted that they had no real bow ties.

Why, you may be wondering, am I writing about bow-ties on the Guardian’s arts page? Because the tying of a bow-tie is an art, that’s why. Any fool can clip one on. It takes vast skill and patience to create the real thing. Brummell used to spend hours on a cravat.

Such were my thoughts as I headed for Moss Bros. Bow-ties? Certainly, sir. Evening bow or day bow? I said I wanted a day bow. The poor chap was crestfallen. He admitted that they were out of day bows. I felt quite sorry for him. By now the whole thing was getting serious. Had real bow-ties disappeared in the 15 years since I last wore one? There was only one way to find out. I headed for Jermyn Street and entered the establishment of Messrs. Turnbull and Asser. All was well. They did, of course, have real bow ties.

I bought one, and as I was paying for it, the assistant asked me something about whether I tied my ties myself. This seemed to me an odd question, since there can’t he many people nowadays who have valets to tie their ties for them. To my surprise he offered to tie my tie for me and revealed that at the back of my new tie there was a hook-and-eye arrangement as found (so I am told) on brassieres.

By means of this device the tie can he taken off and put on again without untying the tie. What this means is that there are people walking about wearing real bow- ties without knowing how to tie them. What would Brummell have said? Shocking, I call it!