Right, sighs my husband, folding up the barely read Saturday paper and taking his mug to the sink, I suppose we’d better get on with buying me some new clothes.

I put down the magazine I’m reading, put my head gently in my hands and close my eyes.

Yes, it’s all coming back now. In a rash moment last night, fuelled by Friday night fatigue, a fresh pay slip and a good few glasses of Pinot Grigio, I remember hearing myself respond positively to a question about whether I thought it was time he had a couple of new shirts for work.

This from the man who takes his sartorial style from the school of scarecrows. Well, strike while the little-used iron is hot, I thought. Not only a couple of shirts, I said, my tongue taking on a life of its own, but you could do with a new suit, too.

He looked askance. Something not too formal. Then he looked too complacent. But not too casual either. A bit, well, rock and roll.

And so it comes to pass that against my better, sober judgment I am starting the weekend traipsing around shops with someone who normally regards retail therapy in the same light as sadism or the occult – painful or dangerous, unless it takes place in a store that sells electric guitars and amplifiers or upmarket ladies’ underwear.

My husband has historically bought clothes in waves. So there was an initial mass purchase in 1977, when I refused to go on honeymoon with anyone aged 24 who still wore his Sea Scout shorts in summer.

Then he refreshed his wardrobe in about 1985, when a slightly expanded midriff meant the waistband on both pairs of his comprehensive school uniform trousers –who would have thought they would last 15 years after sixth form? marvellous! – were feeling the pressure.

And in the late 1990s, I seem to remember a day spent comparing the relative merits of 27 shirts from eight different shops before we could settle on the one. It was for a funeral, as I remember, so they were all white shirts, which luckily helped us narrow it down considerably.

I pack a Thermos flask and some Kendal mint cake, and then off Bill Wyman and I go to the shopping centre.

It’s a big centre, with lots of shops for men, and so the possibilities of finding a suit and some shirts are reassuringly high, but as my rock and roll better half points out, then so are the risks of getting it wrong. Of course! How foolish can I be? And here I was thinking that unlimited choice was a good thing.

We’re not allowed to have eye contact with sales staff or stand on one spot in any of the first dozen or so shops, in case anyone thinks we’re planning on buying something and asks if we need any help.

After an hour or two, though, my patience and Kendal mint cake are running low, and so after taking a break to try on some shoes myself, I flout the rule about not engaging with the people who can actually arrange for us to take some of these garments home and start using language like “34 inch waist, size 25 collar, regular leg” while my husband pokes out his bottom lip like a four-year-old and any minute now I’m expecting him to lie on the floor and start kicking.

The day is saved by the presence of a gorgeous female assistant with huge, er, nous who coaxes him into the changing rooms, out of his jeans, if not his socks, and up to a till before you can say Ted Baker.

When we get home he finds he’s accidentally bought two suits and five shirts.

I’m just going to try something on again, he says, taking the bags upstairs.

He comes down wearing a new guitar strap which he managed to buy all on his own when I wasn’t looking. What do you think, he asks.

Yes, very rock and roll, I sigh.