The other day I received a parcel in the post, and when I opened it, I squealed with pure glee. Nestled in the box was a pair of pink satin shoes, flat like ballet pumps, fastened with a silver buckle. They looked like a cross between a pair of Velma-from-Scooby-Doo Mary Janes and something you’d see on a Sylvanian Families rabbit. I was delighted.
Over the last couple of months, I’ve developed a predilection for adorning myself in the trappings of uber-femininity: tartan kilts, danceresque tights, legwarmers and fuzzy knits. On the secondhand clothing app Vinted, I now have an alert set up for the phrase “bow jumper”; and there is a container on my dressing table that is overflowing with hair ribbons.
