Like most clever people, I’m not over-fussed about clothing; there have been numerous studies showing that successful types – unless they’re in entertainment, showbiz or fashion itself, obvs – tend to wear the same thing every day. Whenever I hear the phrase ‘I like to express myself through what I wear’ I know we’re dealing with a dim bulb – how about expressing yourself through, I don’t know, your words and your actions? Fran Lebowitz once said ‘If people don’t want to talk to you, what makes you think they want to hear from your clothes?’ and though she was referring specifically to slogan T-shirts, I often think of it when I see people dressed in an ‘interesting’ manner. Anyone who’s spent time around fashion people will easily excuse the amount of cocaine taken in such circles, as the dullness of the conversation verges on the surreal; I knew one boulevardier who, on attending a dinner party, would quickly make a note of the best-dressed women and instruct the hostess to sit him nowhere near them, on principle.

I’ve worn black when I was thin and fat, happy and sad, young and old

Though I may not know much about fashion I certainly know what I like – and that’s black clothes. Before any of you rotters refer rudely to the fleeing of my sylphlike charms, I’ll have you know that this lifelong love affair started when I was a girl of 14 – and size 8. I was a pretentious and precocious little madam, and when I read Chekhov’s Masha in The Seagull say ‘I am in mourning for my life’ when asked why she wears only black, it struck me as such an outrageously brilliant thing to say. For ages I’d wanted to wear only black, but as my mother bought my clothes, this was about as likely as my being allowed........

© The Spectator