Tom had a tailor. Of course he did. The tailor came to my office to take measurements and consult me on what type of suits I wanted. I had already decided what I wanted. I was wrong. The tailor was the best salesman I have encountered, a real artist. It was a pleasure spending the £3000 I spent with him that afternoon. Not only did I enjoy being measured up whilst my colleagues looked on but I was treated to a masterclass in sartorial considerations as well as sales craft. Here’s how the conversation went. See if you can spot who is controlling the conversation.

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Kean?”

“I’d like two suits – a classic, heavy cloth two piece with fish tail back trousers which taper to a narrow ankle. And a modern, blue, lightweight suit with thin lapels. Both with cream silk lining and inside pockets. Please.”

“Understood, sir. Right. Let’s start. First thing is to choose the cloth. ” With this, in a deft move he manoeuvred three very large swatch books onto the table in front of us. He touched the one on the left.

“We call this our Junior Executive Collection, sir. A nice wool and manmade fabric mix, modestly priced – between about £450 and £750. Popular.”

Junior Executive? Clearly not for me. Popular with others, I’m sure, but not for the calibre of Director that I was. No, no. Better focus on the other two books. The book was never even opened. Just as he planned.

“Here” he continued, placing his hand on the swatch tome at the right hand side of the table, “we have what we like to call the ‘Elton John’ collection: mohair and cashmere mix, exotic colours, very fine fabrics, sir, as you can feel.” I stretched out a hand. I could feel the money being pulled out of my pockets as iron filings to a magnet. No. Just looking at the swatches made my bank account sweat. Obviously I played along but we both knew I was pretending. He had successfully positioned me exactly where he wanted me – in the middle.

“The Board Director?” We opened the volume directly before me. “Worsted, wool cashmere mix – a nice range of options, sir, and hard wearing. How much will you be wearing the suits, sir?”

We continued talking about how I would be using my newly acquired made to measures as he started to size me up and took out his tape measure. Dimensions were recorded on a yellow pad with carbon copies made in triplicate, for the avoidance of mistakes and the completeness of records. These dimensions would be kept on record for any future purchases or, more likely, as a reference for when the trousers or jacket might need letting out a tad, you know, as the years go by, so to speak. That, at least, is what he said. But I secretly enjoyed the notion that now my dimensions were recorded for posterity and that I would be able to drop into casual conversation what my tailor said. The operative part of the sentence being to send the signal that I had a tailor. I know. Silly, isn’t it? Or so they say at my Club…

“Three button or two, Mr. Kean?” I was stymied. I had never considered the option. Two seemed modern, Italian. Three the more traditional, more British. My tailor eased my discomfort. “If I may hazard an opinion, sir?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

He explained that one never does up the lower button. This leaves the only option for the two button to do up the higher button. With a three button, well, you have the option to do up the top and middle, thereby achieving a slightly more ‘buttoned-up’ look. More formal. I opted for three button for both suits. I am British, after all and I remembered a piece of advice I once read: ask yourself ‘would James Bond wear this?’ (Connery, not Moore) before you commit to purchase. Who wants to spend all that money and look louche? Connery wore three button suits.

He wasn’t finished with the decisions. I say decisions, they weren’t. They were guided conversations. Advice dressed up as polite enquiry. He was using manners and language to create an elegant direction for my taste. He was steering me and I was so happy to be steered. It was like a sartorial version of the TV satire, Yes, Minister. He was Sir Humphrey to my well intentioned but bumbling Jim Hacker.

“Single vent or double at the back, sir?”

“Single?” I was hardly courageous in my conviction. The tailor affected an expression of slight pain. Combined with the barely audible but unmistakably disappointed ‘hmm’, I knew I had made a catastrophic choice. “May I demonstrate, sir?” “Please”, I demurred. At my invitation he turned his back on me and explained. “You see, Mr. Kean” he began, “gentlemen being gentlemen they often like to place a hand or two in their trouser pocket when talking or relaxing in company. When a gentleman puts a hand in each pocket and he is wearing his jacket – the one with a single vent – it has the effect of spreading the jacket either side of his…buttocks. It leaves a large expanse of bottom on show. Whereas, with a double vent, the jacket cloth simply falls either side and continues to cover the bottom, keeping a smooth line rather than a rumpled posterior. “

Simple. I could have kissed him. I was awestruck with gratitude that he had saved me from the fate of all those off-the-peg types showing their bottoms to the assembled crowds in cocktail parties and conferences up and down the land. I would be protected and also in the know from this moment on. It was like being inducted into the Illuminati – a chosen one.

I made my cheque out. It was the most money I had ever spent in an hour. A few weeks later I had an interim fitting and finally my suits turned up at work in their suit bags, complete with my initials stitched on to the inside right hand side wallet pocket. They fit perfectly. Perfectly. Every time I wore them, I remembered the Masterclass. The unhurried, trusted advisor, consultative process that guided me to making the right decision. The tailor’s scissors are not just an emblem of craft in a meticulous and noble trade, they are also a constant reminder to sales people all over the world to cut away the superfluous, the trivial, the wrong until all that is left is an unimpeachably perfect solution to this particular client’s needs.

My tailor price positioned me brilliantly by showing me three options – one I couldn’t afford monetarily, another my ego wouldn’t let me stoop to and a third option that, like Goldilocks’ porridge, was just right. He guided me through the minefield that was two or three buttons and helped me swerve the ignominy of a single vent embarrassment. And as I signed the cheque, I was grateful. I didn’t begrudge a penny – why should I? When I put on my suits I felt like a million dollars. And that’s the sort of return on your invetêments (pun, sorry) you only get with a pro.

Somewhere about 150 metres up the rock behind me, a slab of ice took a dislike to my exclamation of anticipated joy. Already teetering on the verge of a final breakdown under the weight of the fresh snowfall on top of it, the combination of the warm afternoon sunshine and my childish shout of joy, it began to slide down the mountain. The ear splitting “crack” was a last scream of anger as twenty thousand tons of snow, ice and rock sheared off the side of the mountain and headed down the slope directly behind me. 

I froze. A bead of anxious sweat traced from the nape of my neck down my spine. Feeling it course its way down my back created the illusion of time standing still. A fraction of a second later my mind snapped back and my body pushed off in the only direction I could go – almost vertically down. My only hope was to out run the avalanche. But could I? I knew this terrain and that helped, but  the thunderous crack told me this was a big fall. It would gather momentum rapidly and bring everything in its path down with it, like a ravenous wave of snow, devouring all before it. If I was to outrun it, I would have to ski the run of my life. 

Now at top speed, my heart ached and beat like a steam train in full flow. Limbs aching and breath fast, furious and forcing every sinew to the extremes, I kept ahead of the snow beast that snapped at my heels. A kilometre down and I spied my chance of escape: a ravine off the left which had an adverse camber. The avalanche would travel down the natural slope of the mountain but I could turn out of its path. Two hundred metres to go. I squatted lower to generate even more speed. A hundred metres. The crystals of ice that formed the vanguard of the tide of snow behind me reached out to embrace me. If they got a hold, I was doomed. So near. So near to escape. Fifty metres. Twenty. I dinked left and disappeared over the brow of the slope. Although I could hear the avalanche surge on down the mountain behind me, and although I was now out of harm’s way, I kept going and did not look back. I only stopped to catch my breath when I reached the shepherd’s hut. A faint, warm light illuminated the window. I snapped off my skis and raised my hand to knock on the door. Just as I was about to rap on the wood, the door opened and the old, wizened face of the shepherd looked me up and down. 

“Are you a ghost?”, he enquired. “I heard the mountain groan, and when Thor groans, he demands a sacrifice. Is it you?” He left the door open for me.

I walked inside. As I took off my ski jacket, hat and goggles, I went to hang them on the hook by the mirror. Where I should have stood reflected in its surface was only the image of the room in which I stood. 

“Come sit by the fire. You have a long way to travel, friend” began the shepherd. “They all pass through this way.”

“Who do?”, I asked, puzzled.

“The dead”, he answered. “They never realise they have been buried. The adrenalin is too strong. Come. Settle in this chair. Be still. You can rest here for a while until they come to take you.” 

The starched linen, the liveried crew,

Dancing down the aisle to serve you.

Entrée and main, dessert if you dare,

“Share a bottle of red?”

“Well, yes, if you think that’s fair.”

The table you’re shown to, with

Three other guests,

That lottery of company,

Let’s pray they’re of interest.

Bingo! Barrister, Professor, journalist and me,

Breaking bread with clever types

As we speed down the line to

My home by the sea.

Now they’ve all gone –

Departed at stations various.

Just my reflection and me

In a life that’s precarious.

Time. To go.

‘This is how I feel about you.”

‘Vintage Red’ sung by Jay Jay Pistolet came on the car audio. I had never heard it before. I thought she was feeling all the good stuff but I was wrong; she was asking for more time. But I keep the lyric in my heart because it’s still good that someone felt like that about me once, even if she eviscerated and emptied me and hollowed me out.

Bad timing. And, I now realise, of all my mistakes, you were the mistakiest.

Here’s the song:

You’re a vintage red
Beef well-fed
You’re the Tuscan sun
You’re the only one

But all I really want, you see
Is to know you through to some degree

[Verse 2]
You’re the mountain air
You’re all things fair
You are Portofino
San Marino
Monte Carlo
Grand Casino

But all I really want, you know
Is to know you through and take it slow for a while

[Chorus:]
You are everything to me
The last decree, the guarantee
And I would go back underground
If ever you were not around

[Verse 3]
You’re a cashmere sweater
Hand-written letter
You are Blonde on Blonde
But a whole lot better

And all I really want from you
Is a bit of time where time is due

[Verse 4]
You’re a damn good read
I think we’re all agreed
That there is not a word in any verse
That you do not exceed

So all I think that’s left to say
Is you ain’t half bad
Hell, you’re okay to me
(ah ah ah ah ah)