We live a long stone’s throw from Chichester harbour, where we can sail, or go to Goodwood, where, if we wished, we can fly, or go to the race track where there is always a fine display of cars – and of course, the Revival and the Festival of Speed – and also but not least, Goodwood race course, for the horses.

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“Got to look snappy for Goodwood,” I said to my wife, Claudette. “The season’ll be here soon. Got to look good.”

“How about a bright waistcoat?” she said.

“Great idea!” I said enthusing to it.  “With my tum I’ll be able to show it off in all its glory.”

“I’ll see what I can find on e-bay.”

A little while later her screen is showing a fine range of waistcoats, in all the colours of the world. There’s a nice one in apricot, which would go really well with one of my jackets.

It arrived in the mail. We undid its wrappings, took it out and smoothed it down.

It was enormous. Big enough for an elephant’s ground sheet, or nest for a family of hippopotami. It could have sailed Nelson to Trafalgar. But the buttons were fabric and the material was silk and the colour was good. It was just the size of the thing. I didn’t know they made tents to look like waistcoats.

“It’s not really worth sending back,” said Claudette. “Try it on.”

It fitted me like a glove.

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