I always had a fear of looking like the sad old men whose ties never quite reached their belts. Six inches of shirt between tie tip and waist band. My tie, being a pale pinky, bluey sort of thing went well with most of my fairly limited collection of shirts. The obvious white one from M&S, the button down denim one, the stripey one that had two front pockets and so on. It really is amazing how important those breast pockets are. Is it because they are called breast pockets – does it ring some sort of carnal bell? I just can’t cope without a pocket for my credit card and cash; it is my link with control. I am in charge if I have the MasterCard over my nipple. I do not need a wallet; everything I need is there next to my chest, ready to be flashed in any situation.

However, she found a top class shirt going really cheap and decided it was the one for me. It was a marvellous, wonderful, fabulous shirt. Beautifully made with extra buttons and folds, and pockets, and everything was double stitched. It had creases and linings, spare buttons for button holes I could never really find uses for.. All the trappings of calibre, of quality. A prince among shirts. Trouble was it only came in bright red. My tie just didn’t match up. How could I sacrifice my faithful friend for this fickle, flashy newcomer?

I suspect you are waiting for me to trot out all the obvious cliches about knots and ties for this relationship. Did I tell her to get knotted? Was she after an emotional tie that I couldn’t cope with? What do you expect of me?

Our lust couldn’t endure the strain of the tie affair. We stopped sharing a bed and literary conversations. Stephen King was safe, another sale at least every six months to add to the other 2 million.

That shirt was a present and so was the tie. Every time I buttoned up the shirt I reached for MY tie and every time I did that the metaphors started to drown me. That tie reminded me of the past when I didn’t need to wear one, when I was free to do what I wanted and I wasn’t trapped in a job that kept me tied up. The new shirt told me what a successful man I was, in a job that deserved such a pristine example of well-made formality. The tie that I left on the rack back home made me remember all the things that I had wanted, to be and to do.

Freedom in a tie? The girl who gave it to me had made it herself. She ripped an old one to pieces and worked out how the whole thing fitted together. When she gave it to me I was touched but confused. I didn’t wear ties then. Perhaps when I went home for a family wedding, or a funeral, but not as part of my daily life. But somehow she had known that I would be needing one for an interview not much later and it had gone with my one decent shirt. It fitted; it worked and pretty soon so did I. The tie became a symbol of how I could take the past me into the future and still remember him.

But this new shirt kept telling me where I am and where I am always going to be. As I said a little while ago – ties tell you a lot about a man. Ties don’t lie.

Still I’ve started my own little rebellion. I just refuse to button up my cuffs. Already I feel unshackled, I am marching to freedom! Glory, Glory! Give me another year or two and I might undo the top button on my shirt. Somewhere I lost myself and all I’ve got left is that tie. Maybe she should have read the last page first.

Be careful about giving your man a shirt for his birthday. What are you trying to tell him? Whether it is buttoned down, has the most spacious pockets and really impeccable cuffs, it doesn’t really matter. It just won’t tie him down. It’s the neckwear that counts.

Especially if his head is in the noose already.