I CAN'T remember exactly when it was that I was first addressed as "sir", but I do know it was a very long time ago.

I was just a gangly youth, who'd barely started shaving. It happened in a clothes shop.

There I was, rummaging through the kipper ties and shirts with collars so huge they'd lift you off the floor if you dared venture out in a high wind, when the assistant, a man of more advanced years than myself, sidled up and enquired politely: "Can I offer you some assistance, sir?"

To say I was flummoxed would be an understatement. I was gobsmacked and astounded - thoroughly discombobulated, in fact.

I blushed, stammered some lame excuse (maybe the collars weren't big enough, perhaps) and headed for the safety of Woolworth, to peruse the racks of Ronco and K-Tel albums in relative peace.

Nowadays, of course, there are shops where surly staff can barely be bothered to acknowledge your presence; although there are still, I'm delighted to say, several places where the customer clearly comes first - and these are the establishments that I shall continue to patronise for as long as the situation stays the same.

But even now, whenever I return to my native Nottinghamshire, I'm perfectly comfortable with shop assistants, bus drivers, anyone actually, calling me "duck".

Up there, it's what everyone calls everyone else. My son, Dorset-born, always greets his grandad with a hearty "Ayup me duck", and the old man thinks it's great.

Which is why Newcastle council scored an almighty own goal by asking staff not to call people "pet". Like "duck", it's a term of affection that can be applied to both sexes and all ages.

But whether I'm in New Milton or Newark, I've grown accustomed to being called "sir". A word of warning, though: if you value my custom, just don't call me "mate".