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AGE CONCERN I called in at our local Age Concern charity shop this morning. Spring is not all that far away and I thought I would see what they had in the way of lightweight trousers.      Many people are above buying from charity shops and an equal number don't go in them because they consider that just because something is a cast-off it can't be any good, but in my opinion charity shops are not to be sniffed at - except of course those that are so musty that to inhale through the nose whilst in one of them is to invite death by mouldiness of the lung - as perfectly good clothes at knockdown prices can be purchased from them.      You also get people bilking at buying clothes from charity shops on the grounds that there is a fair chance they will have been worn by someone who has died - dead men's clothes my dad used to call them - but the only way this would ever put me buying them would be if the man who had died wa still in them, and even then I still might be tempted if they were in a better condition than he was and hadn't yet taken on the smell of death.      Whenever I'm considering the purchase of new trousers I always ask myself which I would rather have, a brand new pair of trousers or a pair of second-hand trousers in good condition with lots of wear left in them plus a couple of bottles of decent wine. The second-hand trousers and wine win every time.      When I entered the shop I noticed there was a new assistant behind the counter. When I say 'new' I mean new to the job as opposed to not old, it apparently being a rule in charity shops that none of the staff should be younger than ninety years old and look like they are more in need of charity than any of the customers. In this instance the new assistant passed with flying colours, or maybe, given her advanced years, gliding colours.      As I do with all new members of staff at Age Concern on first making their acquaintance I walked up to the counter and said: "I'm concerned about my age." This always gets one of two responses:- (a) They look at me for about five seconds as if I'm stark-raving mad, then quickly start to tidy the nearest rack of clothes, or (b) They say "We only sell second-hand clothes and books." However on this occasion the new assistant rang the changes. She looked at me for about five seconds then said: "Well we all have to go some time, but I'm sure you've got time to buy something before you go." She should do well.      In charity shops women’s clothes outnumber men’s by a ratio of about seven to one. This isn't, as some might think, because women are seven times more generous in the gift of their cast-offs, but because they have seven times more clothes to cast off, as any man who has compared the contents of his wife's wardrobe with his own meagre wardrobe will know. Consequently the men’s section is only one seventh as large as the women's section and can usually be found hidden away in the farthest corner of the sales floor from the door. This is the case with my local Age Concern.      I made my way over to it, via ladies jumpers, crop tops, shorts and evening gowns and the umpteen other sorts of garment that women adorn themselves with. Most pairs of trousers have a label inside them, denoting their size. In charity shops this is supplemented by the shop's own label, which again states the size. Further information as to the dimensions of the trousers can be gleaned from a label on the hanger on which the trousers are suspended. Rarely, if ever, do the three sizes agree, and if you can get two out of the three of them to agree you are ahead of the game. Having once taken seven pairs of trousers off the racks and into the fitting cubicle only to find that not one of them was remotely the right size I gave up looking at the labels long ago and now select by a combination of eye judgement and holding them up against myself to see if they reach the floor. There were about a hundred pairs of trousers on offer, a hundred and six if you include the five pairs of combat trousers and a pair of jodhpurs, but as it is unlikely that I will ever be waging war on anyone, especially on a horse, I passed up on them.      I soon found something suitable, a nice pair of Chinos in pensioner grey, and took them to the counter to be bagged and paid for. The new assistant regarded them with approval. "Very nice," she said. "They should last you a lifetime." Then she cracked a horrible smile. I shall have to watch that one.