I like this kind of redistribution of wealth and I’m happy to be on this side of the church door instead of queueing early outside with other dealers; they’re the first people in line for any sale. We pitch up early and have an eye for a bargain, but what got me on this side of the door was my knowledge about fashion and how much things ought to be sold for. I always offer a fair price. As helpers, we get first choice and first refusal, which is a huge plus.

Naomi’s an expert, not only on fashion, but also on the people who bring the clothes. She knows the importance of provenance, she likes people and she also knows interesting facts, such as that Jesus’s clothes had no seams.

Not only that, but the lack of seams in his robes had also been foreshadowed in the Old Testament years before – it was that big a deal. I love that kind of detail. Little-known fact: the Bible’s big on clothes.

Some of the items I recognise from previous sales, because the church also acts as a clothing swap for disciplined people who believe in the one-in-one-out method of minimalism.

I unearth a tan fringed leather poncho, a gold leather cowboy shirt and a matching skirt. I come across a Comme des Garçons dress, which I show to Naomi Brown, and she says that Joan Fielding, a psychotherapist, has brought them in.

‘Post-nuclear’ seems a surprisingly chaotic choice of dress for a psychotherapist – it’s black, with mismatched sleeves, random slits and raw hems, but who knows? It might have been the owner’s idea of sartorial humour.

I’m interested in the Comme des Garçons and I fall in love with a Le Smoking-style evening trouser suit, which I buy with a compulsive feeling that if I didn’t, I’d regret it. I know I will find a buyer for it.

I also like a full-length black opera cape lined in pink silk that I can see Gigi wearing, with her love for the dramatic.

Naomi prices the four items for me and at 8 pm we call it a day and have a glass of wine each before heading home.

As an added bonus, Cato turns up at my place on Monday night with a consignment of orange-bin-bagged clothes from someone who’d recently passed, and a bottle of Romanian wine.

‘You’re going to like these,’ he promises, dumping the bin bags in the centre of the room. He tosses his tweed cap onto Dolly’s head.

The bags sigh as if punched and slowly exhale the dying breath of floral scent.

He sits on the edge of the red sofa, gripping his moss green cord-clad knees in anticipation. ‘This lady was a padded coat-hanger kind of gal,’ he says, because I’ve told him that I judge people by their coat hangers.