THE big day has arrived and you are prepared . . . speech, both witty

and urbane, is typed and ready for delivery, shoes are polished to an

extent that would make even an RSM emotional, and your hired dicky-bow

tie outfit is laid out neatly on the bed. You had a hair-cut a week ago

-- always best to give it time to settle -- and your taxi is ordered for

seven. Everything is running like a clock: it is going to be a great

night.

Half an hour later and just 30 minutes away from the cabby's

peremptory summons and you are not sure. You have showered -- and not

slipped on the soap and left a purple bruise on your forehead. You have

shaved -- and done so with such care that, for once, you do not look

like a victim of the crazed barber Sweeney Todd. The new dress shirt you

paid far too much for is fitting like a glove, the trousers of your

hired dinner suit like the other glove. You have already tried out the

jacket -- complete satisfaction -- and the midnight-blue cumerbund

actually meets without the aid of a metre of binder twine.

Which brings us to the bow tie . . . the tie-it-yourself bow tie, the

oddly misshapen ribbon of black material about which you so confidently

remarked to the hire-shop assistant: ''I'll manage that no bother.'' He

offered you the already-tied model, even a clip-on in the style much

favoured by five-year-old boys at weddings. You spurned both.

Now you are sweating. In just 10 minutes your cab will be at the door,

meter running, and your shirt collar is beginning to look on the limp

side. You are standing before the bathroom mirror, as you have been for

some time now, and the thought has occurred that you are on the point of

losing your cool. You have before you, stuck to the glass by steam and

willpower, the slip of instructions for tying your tie . . . with

illustrations. It appears that you must take Part A in your left hand,

pass your arm round the back of your neck until the fingers of your left

hand touch your right shoulder, then grasp Part D in your teeth and push

it over your right ear before putting your foot down the bowl of the WC,

which you have just already done. Parts B and C you have not even

attempted because you do not have a foot shaped anything like the one

demanded in the instructions.

For the eighteenth time your loosely knotted creation falls apart. You

paw the tie and wonder if the Spanish version of the instructions, for

some odd reason printed on the reverse side of the hints in English,

will work better than your mother tongue. The doorbell goes -- the meter

already shows a pound, and counting. Speech in hand you run and insist

on stopping, en route, at the nearest five-star restaurant. For a

restorative? No. Quite simply bow-tie tying is taught at catering

college. Remember to tip!