I’ve got a wedding down in the Borders next week, so l wearily had to wearily drag my weary arse around the weary arse-end of the city centre today, to get a suit.

I was up and doon Buchanan Street, as the auld song goes. l was in the lot of them, yer TK Max, yer River Island, yer Primark, both yer H and yer M. It wasn’t too long before l remembered what a drag all these shenanigans are, and l realised that it’s been quite a while since l had to do all this Changing Rooms malarkey – troosers doon, boots aff, hopping aboot in a wee cramped, unhelpfully mirrored un-chaired portacabin, with my pocket change clattering onto the floor and rolling into the next hutch every time my strides come doon. Pre-stroke palpitations sweating from every pore so that every new shirt l try on is instantly now only fit fur the bin.