Imagine a world without credit crunches and overdraft limits. Richard McComb finds it all too easy during a personal shopping spree at Harvey Nichols.

There’s only one problem with personal shopping, not that it’s really a problem at all, not for people like you and me.

It is that you lose all sense of reality very quickly. Credit crunch? Never heard of it. Limited overdraft facility? Talk to the hand.

After two minutes’ luxuriating in Harvey Nichols’ personal shopping boudoir, any notions about the value of money have been erased from my consciousness. Sitting back in a large leather sofa, lip-synching with Beyonce (she’s on the plasma screen, not the couch... “Ohh, got me lookin’ so crazy right now”) I casually inquire about the cost of a lovely lilac shirt that has just been presented to me by Dawn Williamson, personal shopping manager at the Mailbox store. It’s £105. One hundred and five big ones. For a shirt. That I’ll drop brown sauce on.

“Oh-my-God. Your joking, right? £105?”

And then I say it: “That’s such great value.”

I have gone to Planet Ga-Ga, and it’s one of the best places I’ve ever been to, like ever. Everyone is so kind. Personal shopping is the new sex.

Astonishingly, Harvey Nicks lets ordinary people use its personal shopping service and there’s no extra charge. You may, though, have to fight for wood-panelled individual dressing rooms with Premiership footballers, glamour pusses-about-town and stars visiting the city for an NEC knees-up. If you’re Cheryl Tweedy, you’re not going to pop into Next for a pair of knickers, are you?

So I can get to grips with label-chasing, Dawn and I “walk the floor” to get an idea of how this season’s trends and textures fit in with the McComb look and persona. The specific challenge is to find three outfits: a business suit; an outfit to leave the senior management team breathless at the office Christmas do; and something, as they say, for the weekend. After checking out my physical geography, the effortlessly elegant Dawn informs me, ever so tactfully, that I’m going to look best with a “structured” look. It is reassuring because I want to look like a chap, not a lady boy, which isn’t me at all.

Wisely then, we avoid the Gucci collection, which is far too overly-branded for my liking. Plus I’m not sure if they do a 36-inch waist and I don’t fancy the crown jewels being on show. We breeze past the Armani rails. I don’t do Armani. Nice schmutter, well cut and everything. But so 80s.

I am a great believer in backing British, so I check out Alexander McQueen. Here, things start looking up. I spy cords, brown cords. I do cords.

“It’s coming back. Corduroy,” whispers Dawn. Honey, it ain’t ever been away.

Then there’s a super checked shirt, lumberjack style, Pythonesque, in a semi-luminous green/yellow/brown and an oh-so smooth fabric. I’m thinking: “Comfy.” It costs about 350 quid – see, I told you the £105 lilac number was a snip – but it looks a tad... how can I be kind?... man at Millets? Needless to say, I try it on later. It’s a close call – ideal for walking the Labradors in the Cotswolds – but I reject it.

The designer denim, with all sorts of crawling embroidery, studs and bling, is just too young, in the sense my children will consider it “sad.” I have no desire to look like Britney Spears’ hairdresser.

We strike gold – figuratively, not in colour terms – with designer Paul Smith. I am drawn to the classic-ish gents’ tailoring, with its smattering of woofiness. Dawn thinks it might work. My pulse races. And then I clear off, to the refuge of the personal shopping area, to Beyonce. Incredibly, I appear to have escaped the paparazzi and celebrate with a vodka cocktail as Dawn goes to work, gathering garments for me, matching colours and fabrics, doing what she does best.

Ten minutes later, she arrives with an array of clothes that require a second mortgage to secure. Dawn’s taste for a business suit is impeccable: a Paul Smith dark, navy blue travel suit. Now you can’t go wrong with a navy blue suit, the male equivalent of the little black dress. It’s timeless, unlike black suits, which can look a little, well, tired.

The £540 suit dresses up a treated with a classic Paul Smith white shirt with contrast cuffs, as worn by Aston Villa players for their club garb. The look is complete with a £65 Paul Smith stripy tie. Divine, I say to myself, Gok-like.

As it happens, Mr Smith and I seem to be made for each other. For the office bash, Dawn goes for a grey velvet blazer (£500) and the yummy lilac shirt (£105) and a pair of plain black strides. An understated charm, all Paul Smith. Sorry, Giorgio.

For one’s “going away” clobber, we opt, inevitably, for a Paul Smith shirt, of flowers over a bold purple stripe (£120), the same black trousers, and a black “peacock” coat by Dsquared. I favour the “flower power” over Dsquared’s own white shirt with tartan cuffs and collar (£180). Tartan’s on-trend, apparently, but all I can hear is bagpipes.

Bowled over with my new wardrobe, I finish off my cocktail, consider “air kissing” Dawn but don’t. And then I do something no one has ever done in Harvey Nichols. I go to the till, pull out a £1 coin and ask for change, for my bus fare.

“Of course, sir. That’s no trouble at all,” says the charming assistant. She sounds like she means it. I could cry.

* For appointments and further information about personal shopping, call Harvey Nichols Birmingham on 0121 616 6008.