Thanks for bringing a touch of Barbados to Brampton

“Sorry about this but I can’t seem to find the bin-liners.”

See how glamorous life has become?

“Just down there,” a helpful assistant responded, pointing down one of the store’s super-stocked aisles. “Right next to the man in the shirt.”

As an exact indicator it shouldn’t have worked. In spite of baking temperatures, most men were wearing shirts. Those who were not were showing off intricate and extensive tattoos which could well have passed for them.

But this was a shirt. Multi-coloured to within an inch of Dulux envy, with enough unidentifiable flowers to fox all experts on Gardeners’ Question Time , it was what you might call a stand-out.

“Got it, thanks,” I said. And then, more quietly: “What is it with men’s shirts these days?”

She smiled with one eyebrow raised – a skill I’ve always wanted but have never managed to perfect. Tact is another.

Couldn’t help but wonder when and how it happened though. When did men start looking prettier and more flamboyantly turned out for summer than we women? I’d surely missed a key turning-point on their style journey.

Hardly surprising, since I’ve always lagged behind woefully in the fast-paced fashion-following thing. Maybe I’ve been busy with other things. More likely, I haven’t been paying the required attention. Whichever… I’ve clearly missed a trick.

Anne Pickles Enquiring of a friend, who is a fashion and beauty writer for another newspaper and some magazines, didn’t help either. I’ve always admired fashion writers.

They find adjectives I could never have dreamed of, in description of simple frocks, drab colours and Samantha Cameron’s dull collection of T-shirts.

It’s a gift.

“Don’t ask me,” she said. “Maybe we were too busy power-dressing in black and brown to notice the guys going floral.

“Anyway this stuff bores me now. I’m thinking of giving it up. I’m scared of being 60 and still writing about lipsticks and hemlines.”

“Surely not,” I said. “When are you 60?”

“Last September.”

No help there then. But interest having been piqued, more attention to related matters became inescapable.

And yes, I’ve started looking more closely at men.

So, do please excuse if you catch me in a stare. It’s not lascivious. Honest.

“Great shirt…” compliments are usually a safe place to start. “Scarlet flowers. Lovely. Hibiscus? More Barbados than Brampton, I’d have thought.”

The blank gaze offered in return said it all. “Keep up kiddo”. Therein lies the problem. I didn’t… must try harder. Not that it matters too much. But a preoccupation with something other than politics can’t be such a bad thing, can it? Distraction is often the mother of stress relief, I find. Not always, though.

My chum the fashion writer has just put together a carefully considered article about Theresa May’s bravely defensive choice of warrior lipstick shades, now she’s under unbearable political pressure. I promise you, it’s a work of art. Those adjectives! Such a clever woman – my pal, not the other one.

Me? I’ll stick to what I know – or rather, pondering on what I don’t know.

You guys are outdoing us girls in the summer style stakes and I’m dead impressed, while more than a little bemused. I’d love to learn how and when you decided to brighten the place up a bit with a touch of unabashed peacockery.

Not that I’m complaining. Man cannot live by plain polos and football kit alone. Well, perhaps he could but there’s no good reason why.

In a seemingly interminable era of ugliness, hostility, unspeakably tragic events and pain piled upon misery, there’ll always be room for some brightness – even the shirty kind.

If I were a follower of fashion who possessed one, I’d take my hat off to you for cheering things up with your splashes of Caribbean colour.

And for helping me find the bin-liners in Sainsbury’s, obviously. Thanks for that too.

‘You guys are outdoing us girls in the style stakes and I’m dead impressed, while more than a little bemused’