Not for the obvious reason of sneaking into the ladies changing rooms at Top Shop but to use as a cloak of truth. You could slip it on and listen to what your friends said about you without them knowing you were there. On second thoughts, perhaps ignorance is bliss.
The cloak would also be useful for investigative journalists uncovering political corruption, spies attempting to infiltrate terror cells, or nosey-parkers peeping through their neighbour's window.
So it's just as well you can't buy one on e-bay. Except that, perhaps in a decade or two, you might.
Scientists in the United States have developed a material that works the same way as the invisibility cloak. So far, it's only as big as a pin head but they say: “Out ultra thin cloak is easy to design and implement and is potentially scalable.” Which means you can make it bigger.
It's one thing to speculate about being invisible and have a laugh at the possibilities, but quite something else if it turns out to be real and available to anybody from high street shops. And trying one on might prove a challenge for store assistants.
“This is the latest model, sir, and a bargain at £19 99. Where's he gone?”
They would inevitably become popular for a night out. Pubs could look empty, with only the glasses on the bar and tables an indication that it's full. That and falling over someone's unseen outstretched leg.
“Ooh. Good job I landed on this pillow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Cloaked night-clubbers could really take a chance on love by dancing the night away and sharing a goodnight kiss with an anonymous partner. “Can I see you again?” would become redundant when couples hadn't seen each other in the first place.
Mind you, they could be perfect for husbands looking for an illicit affair. He hooks up on-line with a married lady who also demands total discretion, pretends to be a James Bond look-alike, agrees to a no-strings-attached relationship, and they meet in a sophisticated bar.
There he is at a corner table, the only indication of his presence a vodka Martini, box of Black Magic and a Bacardi cocktail sprouting a pink umbrella. As arranged.
“This must be the place,” she whispers, as she sits in front of the cocktail.
“It's quiet in here,” he says. “Shall we drop our cloaks?”
And finds himself sitting opposite his wife.
“Right,” she says. “I'll keep the chocolates and you can still take me to dinner. But when we get home we put the cloaks back on.”
On the whole, I think invisibility is best left to wholesome Harry Potter and should be banned in the real world.