I’ve developed a chronic case of clothes-trophobia; I just can’t face clothes shopping ever again. I’ve had enough of fluorescent lighting and fossicking through manky, over-fingered sale racks. Besides, at this age, surely I’ve got enough clothes? From now on, I’ve decided, I will only shop in my own wardrobe.

Already, I’ve delved so deeply into the cupboard I’m practically in Narnia. Hell, I’m so far back in the closet I may soon find Liberace.

But seriously, the items I’ve uncovered, discovered, salvaged and excavated have had me in stitches. I cannot believe the number of fashion faux pas, style solecisms and garment gaffes and gaucheries I’ve committed over the last five decades. Why haven’t I been arrested by the Fashion Police?

Take the gold, sequinned hot pants. (Please do, just in case I’m ever tempted to become the butt of more jokes by wearing them again.) The sequinned catsuit is also far from purr-fect. Shoulder-padded power suits, denim overalls, a red cape, a tasselled cowgirl skirt, boob tubes, harem pants, double denim and crocheted G-string bikinis also rate highly on the ick-ometer.

What was I thinking? Did I even have a mirror? Was I simply being sartorially satirical? Tongue-in-chic? Maybe, but I fear it was nothing more than bad taste.

Take the gold, sequinned hot pants. (Please do, just in case I’m ever tempted to become the butt of more jokes by wearing them again.)

KATHY LETTE

Unearthing my ’70s poncho, I remembered how sophisticated I felt wearing it to my first music festival. Overwhelmed by sentimentality, I excitedly shoved my head through the neck hole then swivelled toward the mirror in eager anticipation… Well, believe me, only a yak-herding Himalayan nomad would look good in one of these.

Flinging the poncho aside, I moved on to the ’80s and struggled my way into skin-tight, Jane Fonda-inspired, leopard-print lycra leggings. This activity proved so strenuous I tore a calf muscle, strained my groin and feared deep vein thrombosis. But once I’d regained circulation in my lower limbs, I added a feather boa and lime green boob tube. It was a look which didn’t quite come off but gave the impression that it definitely would later – for the clientele of a lap-dancing club.

The compost-brown jumper dress was the next nostalgic item on my list. Generally, the only thing I knit are my brows, and they immediately shot up near my hairline on seeing my reflection. Did I really wear this in public right through the ’90s? I looked like a giant draught excluder. Every girl wants to get laid, but preferably not in a cold breeze on the floor by a door.