One very stylish Ramadan

While an end to fasting is always eagerly welcomed, there are some rituals that happened during this year's Ramadan that will be missed.

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Today may very well be the last day of Ramadan this year, and there's no point in pretending I won't welcome a return to my day's regularly scheduled programming. I have too strong a love for my morning cup of coffee to claim otherwise.

Nevertheless, I would be remiss not to admit there was one unexpected development this year that I will be sad to see end.

Every morning for the past month - save on weekends - I have been hard at work picking out a suit, tie and shirt combo for my surprisingly fashion-conscious husband.

In a nutshell, I have become Mr T's personal stylist.

That's because the amended working hours during Ramadan meant that my husband no longer had to skulk around in the morning, getting dressed with the minimal amount of fuss and noise, as I grabbed a few extra minutes of sleep. During the holy month, both he and I were not expected at the office until 10am - two hours later than the start time he was used to. And this meant he could - and did - consult me on matters of style. Something I had mistakenly thought he was oblivious to.

As it turns out, my harried habit of getting out of bed 15 minutes before I am due at work - which allows me a bare minimum of five minutes to make myself presentable - is not one that he shares.

Instead, Mr T likes to take his time in the morning. He does not like to be rushed when selecting which suit will accompany him on his day, or which shirt will best complement the ensemble. He likes to enjoy the luxury of holding up tie after tie to find the best match.

And, at his fervent request, he'd look to me for approval on it all. Right down to the socks. He even seemed to hang his head whenever a slight shake of my own indicated said socks could not be teamed with the scruffy pair of shoes he was daring to don as footwear.

But I don't want to give the wrong impression: there were no arguments as a result of this morning ritual. I felt privileged to be a part of it, and Mr T seemed genuinely to relish my advice. My choice of clothing item was never questioned. And my protests and grumbles against waking up in plenty of time to help him peruse his wardrobe were regarded as a personal affront to my dapper husband.

Eventually I began to look forward to our morning time together. Making sure my husband looked sharp and well-put-together every morning seemed like a wifely duty I could quickly learn to love. Plus, it didn't hurt that he pretended my assistance meant all the difference to him - he seemed to suggest it determined the difference between being dishevelled or being well-groomed.

I realise now that I lose a lot more than a leisurely morning when I ignore my shrill alarm every day. My "personal stylist" responsibilities may just bolster my resolve to wake up in ample time to tell Mr T he looks great.