"God grant us," said Robert Burns, "the power to see ourselves as others see us." Well, he didn't use precisely those words, but they were certainly to that effect. Robbie Burns recited his poetry in a thick Scottish brogue, so it was frequently hard to make out precisely what he was saying.

Quite why those olden-day Scots insisted on declaiming their verse into their shoes is one of the abiding mysteries of literature. For clarity of transmission, a modern open-toed sandal would surely be the better bet, but that's the problem with your Scottish poets: dour. Never open to new ideas.

On the whole I tend to go along with Robert Burns's sentiments, except of course the time when he said that love is like a red, red nose. I don't agree with that at all. That is taking dourness too far. If love is like any kind of nose at all, in my experience, it is more like a snub nose. Or a running nose. Or a nose urgently in need of blowing. But I digress.

I do agree that it would be a sound idea to see ourselves as others see us, but not all the time. That would just be too depressing. I would never be able to go out in public again. If ever it is given me to see myself as others do, I hope it happens in a short burst some time when I am at home, alone, far from others, that I may cope with the mortification in peace and private. I would not, for instance, wish it to happen in front of a camera crew, two sharp-tongued TV presenters and a vast viewing audience.

How do they find their subjects? That is the cruel part of the show

And yet that is precisely what happens every week to some unfortunate on What Not To Wear (BBC Prime; Thursdays; 8pm). The show is hosted by Trinny and Susannah, two sartorial experts of firm opinions and a conversational style dipped in a solution of hydrochloric acid, vinegar and journalist's ink.

The term "bias cut" might have been invented to describe the action of their tongues. Each week they invite themselves into the home and the life of an ordinary Brit (and nothing is quite so ordinary as a Brit). Once there, they castigate her for her choice of clothes, disabuse her of any romantic notion she might have held that she looks acceptable in the eyes of the world, and then - rather more kindly - they go about constructing a new look for her.

How do they find their subjects? That is the cruel part of the show. Each week the subject is brought to the show's attention by the subject's colleagues, husband or loved ones. Consider that: your colleague, husband or loved one telephones a national television show to say: "I know someone who dresses badly and looks a mess. Come round and film her sometime." Personally, I have always felt the show should be called What Friends Not to Have.

Once alerted, Trinny and Susannah spend weeks filming the subject without her knowledge, then they spring upon her with the footage.

This week the victim was a hapless individual named Delia. "Delia!" declared Trinny and Susannah, emerging from the shrubbery with a mini-cam, "your husband thinks you could dress more attractively!"

"Oh?" said Delia in a faint voice, torn between equal measures of mortification and the sudden desire to inflict pain upon her husband of both a physical and psychological nature. "Yes," declared Trinny, or perhaps Susannah, "and your best friend thinks you look dowdy when you go out."

"Ah," said Delia. There wasn't really much else to say.

Trinny and Susannah had evidence. They forced Delia to view the edited lowlights of her public image. "Golly," said Delia. "I look shorter than I thought." She swallowed hard. "And wider."

Trinny and Susannah nodded in sad agreement. "I look so big on screen," said Delia.

"Not just on the screen, darling," said Trinny. There followed the slow, sad sequence of facial expressions - familiar to regular watchers of the show - that betoken the painful process of a conscious mind coming to terms with the yawning gap between private perception and public consensus.

Thereafter Trinny and Susannah turn out to be quite useful in the field of suggesting flattering shades of aubergine, pencil skirts, tapered what-nots, bias-cut thingammies. It becomes a good deal more kind and gentle, which means - eternal citizens of ancient Rome that we are - it becomes rather less compelling.

Much as I might have wanted to stay to see whether Delia did indeed look better in a drop-shouldered whatsit, my attention was drawn by a barbarian horde. Over in Attila the Hun (M-Net; Thursday; 8pm) Tim Curry, playing a Holy Roman Emperor, was wearing flowing plum-coloured and luxurious gold brocade. I suppose Holy Roman emperors can get away with that sort of thing, but I doubt Trinny and Susannah would have approved.

It didn't suit him half as well as the leather bodice and suspender belt in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but then again - as Trinny and Susannah would insist - part of the secret of knowing what to wear involves taking into account the pressing exigencies of time and the flesh.

Alas, Tim Curry is not the svelte transsexual he used to be. He is nowadays more furter than frank, more curry than Tim. He prowled his palace like a man who has risen to power principally by eating the opposition. Attila might have been the Hun, but Tim looked like the well-fed hungry.

When Attila appeared you could tell he had Trinny and Susannah on the payroll. Sparely dressed yet classic, smart and sassy, with a tunic and boot combo that just made accessorising easy, he was every inch the wannabe world conqueror. Afternoon battles, night-time engagements - he was prepared for anything. Attila the Hun: now there was a man who knew how to make the world see him the way he saw himself.