Posh blokes in suits

We've finally done it. It's taken three saturdays. Several miles of traipsing around London. Countless trips back and forth between Regent Street and Jermyn Street comparing and contrasting. Much swearing at the hapless tourists who seemed to be deliberately clogging up the streets and shops we needed. And it's actually taken longer than the choosing of the wedding dress. But last weekend, my husband-to-be finally chose his wedding suit.

And very nice it is too, in a dark grey with a bit of a grainy texture. (Or sharkskin as the posh suit shop called it.) He's going to look very handsome.

Shopping on Jermyn Street was an experience too. I've often wondered where posh people buy those tweedy sports jackets, chequered shirts and mustard moleskin trousers. And now I know.

With the grandiose and over-the-top magnificence of Fortnam & Masons regally perched at the top of the street, walking down Jermyn Street is like wandering around one of those working museums you see on Channel 4. All the victorian-esque shops seem to consist of dark wood and brass fittings, with ceiling-high, narrow shelves of shirts and rainbow displays of ties. They are all staffed by carefully groomed and slightly snooty gentlemen, effortlessly gliding around the shop floors with tapemeasures round their necks and calling everyone sir. It's a far cry from the low-crotch-skinny-jean wearing, gum chewing, bored, hungover, Top Shop sales assistant.

And all the shops have the same odour about them. Sort of musty and old. But new at the same time. With an ever so faint top note of cigar and fifty pound notes. It's the natural smell of posh people.

Needless to say, we felt slightly out of our depth at times. Kinda like two hungry Dickensian waifs, with tatty trousers and grubby faces, looking on in wonder as a man with marbles in his mouth thinks nothing of spending £1000 on a couple of shirts and a jacket.

It truly is another world.