I GOT served in a shop the other day.

I don't mean that some gum-chewing, gossiping Saturday girl bundled up my stuff, took my card and ran it through a machine without even looking at me.

I mean I got properly looked after.

A sales assistant, whose name I wish I had asked, saw me choose a dress from a rail at Hobbs in York city centre.

She came up beside me and... a remarkable thing, this... she started to help me without making me feel that I was being railroaded into a purchase.

She ushered me into a changing-room, found me several pairs of shoes to match my outfit, and hunted high and low for a range of jackets in my size to complement the dress I had selected.

She gave me advice about what she thought looked best, and I think she actually meant what she said. She was a great saleswoman because she so obviously loved the clothes and enjoyed her job.

Reader, I bought the dress.

A few days later, the same thing happened again. At Jigsaw in Stonegate, an assistant saw me with several skirts and, looking at what I was wearing as I shopped, suggested there might be one that I would like more.

She brought it to my cubicle, and guess what? She was spot on. I bought it, and the next time I went in, I happened to be wearing my purchase. She hailed me like an old friend and said: "Your new skirt looks great!"

Now that's service.

So what's happened? Time was, I could have a cardiac arrest in a shop before anyone paid me attention - and that's just the way I liked it.

I had perfected a don't-bother-me glare and could bark 'just browsing, thank you' before any assistant got within 15 yards of me.

When I think back to those days, I remember that I was both young and skint, factors that left me hostile to the advances of people I regarded as being employed to part me from my hard-earned money.

Subconsciously, I probably wondered if they could tell I was only window-shopping - or if they had me down for a potential shoplifter.

But I've mellowed with age and, sometimes, I've even got a bit of spare cash instead of buttons in my purse nowadays. Who knows? Maybe shop assistants can tell these things.

Alternatively, could it be that retailers are starting to train their staff properly? They certainly need to, after this week's warnings of doom in the retail sector.

Shoppers are reported to be keeping their wallets firmly in their pockets, and those who do spend are doing so more and more on the Internet, often cheaper and more convenient than shopping on the high street.

Service is obviously one of the best ways to hit back at this trend. A computer will not have a chat and a joke with you, and it can't tell you if your bum will look big in whatever it is you're buying.

Not all shops have cottoned on to this, though. Just yesterday, I was in a store that shall be nameless and got the bored Saturday girl routine.

One of the assistants had on a lovely necklace and I complimented her on her choice. "Thanks," she said absently, then started talking to her pal.

Maybe this was the only way she knew to hide her horror that someone like myself could share her taste in anything.

It's a shame, because the result was a lost sale and a bad memory. I still like the shop, but it'll be a while before I help pay that girl's wages again.

Updated: 11:28 Wednesday, May 11, 2005