I cannot believe the number of fashion faux pas I’ve committed over the years

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.

Kathy Lette once greeted the Queen in her best corgi chic.Credit: Getty Images

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.

With getting laid now on my mind, I next squeezed myself into my Madonna-esque lacy black basque from the noughties. I started the process with erotic alacrity but had forgotten that doing it up is more complicated than advanced algebra. Later that night, it proved even more challenging for my lover. The garment had so many flaps, loops, clips and elasticated panels he required an engineering degree to operate it. By the time he got the damn thing off, it was morning.

Under a pile of slogan T-shirts for old wars/causes/pop groups, I found the strapless red evening dress I wore to a ball for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. It wasn’t until I shimmied into it again that I realised its true skimpiness. Put it this way, I’ve seen more silk on a worm. One false move and all would be revealed. I’m surprised Prince Philip wasn’t sticking to me like nylon underwear in a heat wave, and amazed extreme sports enthusiasts haven’t taken up strapless-gown-wearing as the ultimate risk-taking thrill.

As I bag up skyscraper stilettos with the bobble hats and bubble skirts and head for the charity store, I reject the time-honoured “survival of the hippest” mantra. Surely, the only requirement you should make of your attire is that it’s comfy and flame-retardant? (I hate to think how many vinyls died to make my old biker jacket.) From now on it’s all ugg boots, trackie daks and floaty, kaftan-style dresses baggy enough to double as a slip cover for a small island, and which will also come in handy on sailing holidays if the yacht captain loses the spinnaker.

Oh no! I hear you say. What a turn‑off! Yes, it’s true that women often dress to attract a mate. But to be noticed by the male of the species I’m pretty sure a gal need only wear two things – her heart on her sleeve and beer-flavoured lip gloss.

Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.