The sartorially inclined tend towards panic around mid-October. Not the existential kind - though she’s never far off - but the creeping sense that the season of sequins, velvet and regret-laced Uber receipts is nearly upon us.
Diaries are filling with invitations that say things like “festive cocktail” or “smart sparkle”, and my calendar is gently suggesting I start thinking about logistics. My wardrobe, however, remains defiantly in denial.
