"It's not your colour." Condemnation came from behind, slightly to my left and at what seemed waist height. In the sales-beleaguered Debenham's it was not at first clear to whom the remarks were made.

Turning, I saw a disapproving expression across the face of a small woman, circa 60, henna-haired and carrying more weight than dieticians would recommend. She pointed at the long-sleeved pullover I had grappled from the clutches of others looking for a bargain. My victory turned to doubt and dismay.

"Fawn is not your colour," she said. "You'll look pasty faced. You need strong colours at your age."

I was not inclined to discuss what age she thought I was. And it didn't matter because she snatched the pullover, returning it to the rail, and began to rummage through the blues, burgundys and greens.

"Fawn is all right for Wilf - he has high blood pressure," she continued, indicating a red-faced chap standing patiently alongside.

"Is that so, Wilf?" I said, venturing to use his first name even though we had not been formally introduced.

"Don't ask me," he replied in deep, morose tones. "I'm only here to be shouted at."

My self-appointed wardrobe mistress chose a three-shade of blue number, which I liked at first glance. She tossed it over and headed across the aisle to shirts and ties, returning seconds later with one of each.

"These will go nicely," she said.

Before I could make a critical appraisal, she and Wilf had moved on, and I was left to shout my thanks and wish them a Happy New Year.

"Same to you," came her voice, now hidden deep in the crowd. "And remember - lay off fawn. It's not for you."

Showing my purchases to an old chum who works at my favourite Covered Market café, I told the story. She showed no surprise.

"You do look helpless at times," she said kindly, thus scuppering any indignant protest.

Overheard in that same café were four women of pension age and above were discussing death and funerals: "When I go, I am having the Co-op. You know where you are with the Co-op."

The others nodded and sipped their coffee.

Quality coffin, ham tea and Heaven guaranteed?

Meanwhile, first-year Christ Church undergraduate Bilawal Bhutto Zardari might believe mother knew best, but she sure as hell has done him no favours.

Not even Benazir Bhutto could have expected the desired succession to be so soon.

Nor do I believe she has done her old university any favours, a university where she starred as one of the most talented and beautiful presidents in the history of the Union.

The new and youthful co-chairman of the Pakistan People's Party is a prime target, a prize scalp for those whose answer to arguments is the bullet or the bomb.

How can his or anybody's security at Christ Church be guaranteed? It cannot be left to the bowler-hatted custodians to fend off would-be assassins with a stern glance.

If security guards were brought in, what sort of atmosphere would they create? Certainly not one conducive to learning or enjoying the salad days of varsity life.

While it is understood Bilawal wants to continue at Christ Church, there are other considerations.

I would be unhappy to have my children or grandchildren there if he remained. I am not being lily-livered or bowing to as yet unannounced terrorist threats and frightened off by possibilities of the unthinkable.

But all too often these days the unthinkable happens. We have to think of the welfare and safety of our own kids.