I’m feeling a bit crushed not to have merited even a mention at this week’s Fashion Awards. I cede to no-one as Most Eclectically Dressed Novelist. In the frosty cave that passes for my book-lined den I am currently wearing: one vintage thermal vest, one long-sleeved cocoon dress, two sweaters and my old Mum’s shortie cape slung around my shoulders in a style not dissimilar to Anna Wintour’s white, furry shrug. Where am I going wrong?
Admittedly I don’t work wearing industrial quantities of mascara. I find the weight makes my eyelids droop. But I can do big hair. I’d have to take off my fur hat but give me half an hour and a can of dry shampoo and you’d be surprised. The only reason I can find for my yet again missing the nominations list is that I haven’t perfected the art of standing with my legs crossed.
The exigencies of my working life require me to keep both feet firmly on the ground. Sometimes, towards the end of a long day, my eyes cross, and around publication day I keep my fingers crossed, but my ankles? Never.
Actually my ankles have disappeared. I’ve starting to look like I’m wearing leg warmers even when I’m not. Maybe next year I’ll get tipped for Stylish Crone. Me and Vivienne Westwood, head to head.