THE old dark suit used to hang, a touch forsaken, in a corner of the wardrobe.

It would be brought out for the occasional funeral and the even less frequent wedding, christening and other formal occasions. No longer is this so; in recent times it has been promoted to a more prominent position upon the clothes rail as it is required far more often than was the case a few years ago — the 'Grim Reaper's' ever more successful harvesting of my generation ensuring such brutal reality.

Fortunately, as I've gained no weight over the decades, it still fits tolerably well — or too well, if truth be told, as due to the shrinkage of age (mine, not the suit's) there is room within for a sturdier body than mine. Now, in an era when the wearing of casual clothes is in vogue — some of it of a standard so shoddy no decent jumble sale would offer such — it is still no hardship to me, at happy events, to wear a competently tailored suit especially if complemented by a neat shirt and tie of tasteful, but rich colour (my wife, thankfully, usually does the choosing).

The problem is that in recent times those aforementioned formal celebratory occasions encouraging the donning of such attire — never that frequent — seem to come around about as often as Halley's Comet; modern social and cultural habits ensure, sadly one feels, celebrations to mark matrimony and birth become fewer, while other events which not long ago would encourage —possibly, almost demand — the wearing of formal dress are now dominated by casuality, the mode of dress reflecting this change in standards (lowering, some might say).

Funerals, though, are different — or predominantly so; there is a slight trend towards the sporting of bright colours (usually at the behest of the deceased's family), but the vast majority of such sad, and final, occasions still require, and receive, adherence to black; and, as has been stated, the times, personally, when such sombre clothes need to be worn has moved from trickle to flood.

Mind you, while the donning of dark, formal attire is expected, it does not necessarily inhibit pursuit of fashion — not where ladies are concerned, anyway. In this direction, there are those who look as if they have just stepped out of a top London couturier; a majority, though, will dress smartly, but in the relatively functional clothes they have worn at previous sad times, while there will be those who will appear to have grabbed their funeral 'weeds' from the bin at the rear of a charity shop.

There will be, undoubtedly, greater uniformity in the garb used by men; dark suits, black shoes, white shirts (though several different shades) and black ties will abound. In this, though, while varying fashions will not be overt, standard of dress will. There will be those so immaculate they could parade with The Coldstream Guards, others, while obeying the tradition of black, will look as if they have spent a sleepless night on a park bench, their clothes cursed with more creases than a score of cricket squares; and some of the suits will appear to have been in service since VE day and, often, no longer cover adequately the increasing bulk of the wearers.

Then — there are the ties. These vital tokens of mourning and respect will have immense — almost extraordinary — variation, some seeming to have originated in Savile Row, others from a council skip; there are those who will reach almost to the knees, others to the navel, while a number will be so short that they often appear to be strangling the wearer. They can be wider than a scarf or almost as narrow as a shoelace; some top quality; others bought in a charity shop or at a car boot sale, probably at one time the property of a member of the emergency services — a police officer or firefighter; also the degree of blackness will range from jet to a tired, murky dark grey. Many will look at ease in them, others, who view the donning of a tie on any occasion to be a restriction of liberty, distinctly uncomfortable.

There will be those, of course, close to the deceased, whose grief and anguish will be such, they will be neither conscious or caring of their apparel. Nor should they be, in reality; for if ever there is an occasion when the reason for it is totally all that matters, it is a funeral, the bidding farewell to a colleague, a friend or a loved one. It is a woman or a man — or, even more sadly, a child —making an involuntary, coffin shrouded appearance prior to the dropping of the final curtain. How folk look is not really important — but being there is.