It’s quite rare, these days, that an outfit will make me feel truly great. Great with no caveats. Great “but also I don’t have to worry about my dress flying up in the wind” or great but “also I don’t have to worry about my middle button popping off where my gut has stretched the fabric so much.” Great, but without the associated fashion stresses.
Because it stresses me (in a very minor way) even putting together an outfit – that’s nothing to do with having had kids, I’ve always been crap at dressing myself – and so by the time I’m actually wearing something decent, and I’ve found shoes to match that won’t kill me and a coat that’s not covered in mud, I’m truly indifferent. I’m usually just relieved to have been able to get dressed without tripping over my own legs and knocking myself out (Levis flagship store, Oxford Street, 2009) or getting my head stuck in a tight neck-hole (Ghost sample sale, Westbourne Grove, 2004) or temporarily dislocating a shoulder getting into a couture Dolce & Gabbana corset dress (Elle Magazine fashion cupboard, Mayfair, 2010).
So I’ve been taking particular notice of the times that clothes do make me feel good – properly good – and making a bit of a sartorial wishlist. Because feeling good in clothes – for me at least –  isn’t necessarily just about knowing that they flatter me or look expensive or t...