"It suits you, sir!"
Well not really, actually. It's puckered around the fly, the lining's making creases and I thought it would have a buttonhole on the lapel.
"No, you have to specify that," came the reply. I was lucky, then, because I hadn't specified arms and legs. The tailor must have used his initiative.
This was my first brush with the dusty, clubby world of bespoke tailoring and I had the feeling I'd been stitched up, albeit in a very professional manner.
Moreover, a breakdown in communication between my sartorial adviser and his assistant had led to confusion over the delivery date. "Oh, the wedding's the weekend before this Easter?" As the soon-to-be best man at an old friend's wedding, I was beginning to get those worrying dreams of walking naked down the street. The ultimate experience in men's outfitting might end in a severe case of the emperor's new clothes, with me centre-stage.
Love affair
Like the romance of the besotted couple for whom I was about to stand witness, my own love affair with the suit had started blissfully.
I was a happy man cooing about the texture of Derbyshire's finest charcoal grey cloth. Ah yes, the midnight blue silky lining was very much me. It was all so seductive. . . four buttons on the cuff, two faux, two working; overstitching around the lapel; a single vent and of course, a deep roll.
"It's my first time, you know." A knowing smile. Comforting at the time, but with the clarity of hindsight very reminiscent of Terry Thomas in those Ealing classics. "Well, hellooo. . ."
And the price? Somewhere between that of a new car and a small house. But really, old man, that's all a little vulgar.
Now, it was just a matter of waiting for the cloth; the next step would be measuring. Time passed; no phone call. Back to the shop. "So glad you called in. We didn't have your number." The early-warning sign went unheeded. This lamb was cheerfully skipping to the slaughter.
Suddenly my black shoes, which had always seemed perfectly functional now seemed just that: functional. Clearly what was needed was a trip to London. Armed with an altruistic excuse - my twin nieces' second birthdays - it was off to Covent Garden and Jermyn Street for shoes, shirt and tie.
Everywhere I went, more of these well-dressed, confident people popped out of the mahogany woodwork to ease money from my pocket with a silky touch. I was beginning to have second thoughts and it wasn't even my wedding. But there was no going back: I was too far down the aisle.
Frayed nerves
Back in Dublin with one week to go. By now the nerves were becoming a little frayed. Frantic phone-calls had failed to secure a firm date for the first fitting. The attention once lavished on me was fading fast.
At last, the jacket was ready for its first outing, but not the trousers. Those dreams again - my derriere was exposed to derision. Friends' polite enquiries about the suit were taking on a hollow, mocking ring.
The day of the first fitting finally arrived. My tailor invited me to slip on the jacket. I wondered if he was referring to the object which amounted to little more than a one-armed vest.
"How's that feel then? OK across the shoulders?"
Light as a feather, you might say, since the jacket had only one shoulder.
"You wanted a three-button jacket, didn't you?" No, no, two, like the really snazzy off-the-peg number I'd seen recently for a fraction of the price. Was it considered bad form if a gentleman broke down while being fitted up, I wondered.
Surely things couldn't get worse. Next session, trousers. Yes, I did want a neat cut, but I didn't want to look like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fe- ver. And what feat of engineering made them simultaneously tight in the crotch and loose around the waist?
Back for the final fitting on the eve of the wedding. The jacket was looking remarkably good. A tailored cut hides a multitude of sins, but the trousers were still loose around the waist. "What about a safety pin, just for the wedding?" said the tailor's assistant (the sartorial sage had headed for the hills by now). Good idea, I found myself nodding meekly, the bespoke balloon well and truly burst.
Carnation
Any more fine-tuning was going to have to wait until after the wedding. At least I now had the requisite number of arms and legs even if there was nowhere to stick the carnation which the bride was adamant must be worn.
At the wedding strange things started to happen. The stress of the ordeal slipped from my shoulders like an ill-fitting, off-the-peg number. The magic whistle and flute began to weave their spell. Maybe my tailor wasn't such a wolf in very sharp sheep's clothing. Compliments flowed: Nice suit, lost weight? How much? Really, that was good. Good? The thing was positively cheap. Already my mind was drifting to the next bespoke romance, maybe a nice lightweight summer affair.