It’s not that I don’t like my body, it’s just that we have an understanding – an agreement. A recognition of what is likely to work and what is not.

For example, I have absolutely shocking co-ordination – classic “pick me last!” pratfall Mr Bean bizness. So I will not be volunteering for your football team, if that’s ok.

I will also categorically refuse to go shopping for clothes under any circumstances less extreme than threats of violence against my person by those close to me.

Part of this is because I’m just not interested – my parents used to give me money to go and buy clothes and I’d spend it all on records and try desperately to find something to fit me in a charity shop afterwards.

Part of it is that I’m just the wrong shape for clothes on your planet: 6 foot 2, massive shoulders, skinny as you like. Plus not really having a disposable income any more doesn’t exactly help.

Anyway, I had to get a new suit, cos my existing one (and I certainly don’t need more than one suit…) is falling to bits and has an added bonus feature of bulging at the flies to make me look like a deranged sex pervert. And also because of an impending wedding, and the AGM at the charity where I work. Conformist, moi?

So there we were, mob-handed in the West End on a saturday afternoon (I need a gang with me or I will spend all the money on records and/or purchase a fashion disaster of almost apocalyptic proportions).

It’s really alienating down there, isn’t it? Not just the crowds, but the fact that there are so many people who seem at ease with themselves. Possibly because they are the sort of people who not only know instinctively what looks good, but can also walk into a shop and find stuff that fits them straight away. I swear the first shop we went into just didn’t stock trousers my size.

“They” are all glam and trendy and smiling (these weirdos looked like they were enjoying themselves FFS!). I am the tall, gangly man, looking like a shoplifter. I also have crackhead-red eyes and am constantly sneezing because of my hayfever. Every time I try on a suit I keep checking the crotch to see if the fly is going to pull the same deranged sex pervert trick as the last one.

So people steer well clear of me, which is actually a bit of a result considering how crowded everwhere is. Partner, daughter and my sister display the patience of saints as I try on a series of suits which are all not quite OK. Inevitably my sister bumps into some of her crushingly trendy gay mates and I feel for a moment like I am about to be transported into some hellish makeover programme scenario. Fortunately for everyone they saw the awesome task in front of them and made their excuses.

We got the suit (Top Shop, nice one). But I’m not doing that again.