Before you know it, you’ve allowed your subconscious to do the shopping and you’ve got yourself a COLLECTION.

It’s funny, the kind of fashion ruts we often find ourselves in. You purchase one thing, then, quite innocently, along comes another garb of the same ilk, be it another trusty Breton top, a second pair of tan brogues, or your can’t-live-without new favourite black skinnies from Topshop. OK, you knowingly indulge in a third piece because hey, you’re looking good, and before you know it, you’ve allowed your subconscious to do the shopping and you’ve got yourself a COLLECTION. Oops!

But while some may be swimming in a sea of too much marl, my sartorial sticking point is, at least, a glamorous one: sequins. Comments like “Oh, you’re so sparkly!” (big American boss woman), “You really remind me of Roisin Murphy” (cool gay receptionist), and “Excuse me while I reach for my Ray-Bans on this dreary November morning” (everyone on the 08:49 to Farringdon), have led me to assess my sequin obsession.

Magpie-like, if I see sparkle, I buy it, and here’s why: sequins are my armour. Like chainmail protecting me from the bullshit of the modern world, I stand – human glitter ball that I am – defiant against Monday mornings; dickheads on the Tube; the mundanity of the school run; that unwelcome little text from Barclays telling me I’ve gone overdrawn; and the heart-sinking news of yet more Tory cuts.

A fashion rut it may be, but it’s not one I’m looking to dig my way out of any time soon.

Fuck it, let’s D.I.S.C.O!