Our holiday rep, a really nice girl called Kelly, mentioned several times that it was very cheap to get clothes made in India and when we expressed an interest (never one to overlook a bargain, me), she contacted the mysterious Ismail, who promised to send a car. Our initial reaction was a bit girly, to be honest. We were happily ensconced in our little corner of paradise, and taking a car into the real world to an unknown destination seemed a little scary. Still, Kelly was insistent that it was all above board, so we met our driver James outside the hotel, and bit the bullet as it were.

The journey did very little to allay our fears, although we distracted ourselves with a chat with James, who was very friendly and funny. We commented that our waiters and bar staff were lovely, and he mentioned that they probably only earn about 4000 rupees a month. When you consider that there are 85 rupees to the pound, these lads do serious 12 hour days for very little money. We guiltily resolved to be good tippers. While we chatted, we rattled along at alarming speeds down the red, dusty tracks liberally sprinkled with speeding mopeds (often holding a whole family - Dad on the front, Mum on the back and a child wedged between them or standing at the front), small children, pigs, chickens, stray dogs, wandering cows and very large potholes. One man drove past us with a little black pig in the box at the back of his moped squealing so loud that we initially mistook it for some sort of Goan police siren (’Christmas dinner’, James observed).

Eventually, our nerves in tatters, we arrived at a small, glass fronted building in a tatty terrace, where a smiling Ismail was waiting to greet us with a firm handshake and expansive, gold-toothed smile. We were welcomed into the shop, which was spectacularly lined with rolls of silk, linen, sari fabrics and suiting in every colour you could possibly imagine. Ismail started talking as he banged down roll after roll of fabric, whooshing great clouds of shimmering fabric up into the air as he did so, and didn’t stop until we left. He offered Hubby suits in mohair and cashmere, linen trousers, Egyptian cotton shirts and anything else he could possibly imagine. Turning to me, he grabbed rolls of beautiful fabrics, talking ten to the dozen about making me evening dresses, skirts, shorts, copying anything I already had and, bizarrely, anything I wanted from the Next Directory (he had a big tatty stack of the oldest Next Directories I’d ever seen). Having wanted just a couple of pairs of linen trousers, by the time Ismail had taken a breath we’d ended up ordering not just the trousers, but shorts, work trousers and shirts for hubby, and I’d been talked into the dress (in the most beautiful two-tone fabric which shimmered pink then turquoise in the light). All this in prices that would put Primark to shame.

With a slight nod of his head, Ismail then conjured up a small army of tailors and we were measured all over from head to toe and in my case, rather more intimately (I wonder if Savile Row tailors measure the distance between your nipples?). Ismail smiled at my embarrassment and commented that the young lad measuring me wasn’t married. With this, the poor boy blushed even more scarlet and I wished I’d worn more than a bikini and a pair of shorts.

Sensing a captive audience, Ismail then lead us next door. Obviously, being a tailor was just a sideline as it turned out he was also a silk dealer, diamond merchant (he insisted that Hubby use an eye glass to check out a diamond the size of a broad bean: ‘you buy this for your loved one, no?’, ‘No’.), dodgy handbag trader (’you want Burberry? Chanel? It’s buy one get one free’) and er..suspect pharmaceutical pusher. Leaning forward on his counter, he checked we were alone before whispering: ‘you want Viagra? I get it cheap for you’. It was then Hubby’s turn to blush while he muttered ‘er no, thanks, we’re fine in that department’.

Finally arranging to come back for a fitting on the Sunday (’Chrismas Day, though’, Hubby pointed out, ‘this is not a problem for Ismail, I work this day for you’), we climbed gratefully into James’ car to run the gauntlet of animals, children and mopeds back to the sanctuary of our hotel.

I have to say, though, when we did pick the stuff up, it was pretty darned good. The stitching was excellent and the shirts could have been Marks and Spencer. I was slightly disappointed with my dress as the material I’d chosen was a bit stiff to hang properly, but the rest was spot on. Ismail finally said goodbye to us with several hundred business cards and the promise that we would email if our love life ever fell below standard (’I post them to your house, no?’).

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