“THAT’S a grand looking coat for the money,” I said to the dapper man, whose diplomatic eyes and canny ways with the measuring tape bring a mood of high civility to the shop, which attracts customers of a certain age – trapped somewhere between the early signs of memory loss and the second hip replacement. “I can’t believe the price,” I added, as he glided across the carpet with his smile at full beam.

“A bargain indeed, sir, I can tell you’re a man of discernment,” he said, purring softly. “Would you like to try it on? The mirror is over there.”

“Ah, yes, that’s me,” I said confidently, on approaching my reflection with a contented nod and a slight puckering of the chin. “It was made for you,” said the man, sensing a deal approaching the finishing line.

“Everything is fine, except I can’t put my hands in the pockets,” I replied.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that is because some gentlemen, who are not like you at all, leave toffees and even chewing gum in the pockets when they are trying on coats and jackets. It is not very nice for the hand of the next customer to meet a sticky morass, as perhaps you can imagine.”

“And bombs,” chimed his female colleague. “A few years ago, there were fears that terrorists might leave bombs in them – and to prevent that happening the pockets had to be stitched up.”

“Good Lord,” I said in alarm, experiencing the unexpected sensation of a thought in my head. “So if had not been for your diligent security stitchers, I might have edged my bus pass towards the opening of a pocket and obliterated Birkenhead?”

“A most unpleasant thought, if I may say so, sir,” said the dapper man. “We wouldn’t want that to happen – now would we?”

“By Jove, no. The world would be a desolate place without dear old Birkenhead,” I agreed, while posing before the mirror. “I shall take the coat, but could you snip the stitches in the pockets? I still can’t believe that you could sell a real suede coat for £29.” He snipped away, busily.

“Even to a man of discernment such as yourself, it is almost impossible to tell the difference,” he said with a hint of cunning, “but it is a synthetic fabric.”

“Suedette,” I whispered to myself, as the memory raced back to the 1960s – when, in an attempt to appear like a country landowner, I had bought a suedette coat in a shade described as “county brown”. But the effort failed. “You look like a bookie at a dog-racing track,” said my friend, Brian, dabbing a bead of mirth from his lower eyelid.

“I couldn’t tell it wasn’t real suede, until he came round the corner,” my late mother said to him, stuffing a handkerchief into her mouth to contain the giggles.

Anyway, I left the shop in this new coat to keep an appointment with my wife, who was seeking a chest of drawers to give our son as part of his 14th birthday celebrations. We met in the lovely old picture palace, where on a quiet day you can still hear the crunch of popcorn. But it has been turned into a furniture warehouse and the ghosts of cabinet- makers weep over strips of hardboard, as thin as cheese slices, which are stapled or glued to the backs of cupboards and wardrobes.

“Gosh, I thought that was real suede when I saw you striding in the distance, but then I realised that you wouldn’t be mean enough to spend so much of our money on yourself,” said my wife, a relieved glow passing over the lovely turquoise of her eyes, as I joined her at the entrance to the old cinema. “You know, I saw the epic adventures of glorious heroes rolling across the silver screen here,” I said to an assistant. “Times change,” he said. “But the need for happiness is constant,” I replied.

People ask boys of 14 what they want to be – engine driver, doctor, poet, historian, pilot, footballer, rock star, tailor, Prime Minister? “Happy,” is the best answer.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk