September 23, 2026 — 7:00pm

Forget Freudian analysis, ayahuasca, hypnosis, tarot or the I Ching, the best insight into a woman’s psyche is to see what’s hanging unworn in her wardrobe.

Be honest. How many of your outfits are gathering dust? So, why do we buy expensive clothes then refuse to let them see the light of day? It’s as if we are kitting ourselves out for a parallel, more glamorous existence. The outfits are ready; it’s just that our lives haven’t met the dress code.

My own closet is a museum of alternatives of me. It’s optimism on hangers. I have clothes for Monte Carlo casino nights, Venetian masked balls, Marrakech rooftop raves with rock stars, Scottish grouse shoots with minor royals, Himalayan glamping, Tamworth country music rodeos, Riviera superyacht soirées, elk stalking, pole dancing, hot-air balloon picnics, alpaca polo and the Lake Como palazzo balls where everyone pretends to know the Clooneys.

And what do I wear day in, day out? Baggy T-shirts and saggy trackie daks. I look poised to clean algae out of an aquarium, re-grout a shower or change a tyre at a moment’s notice. Clearly, I paid full price for a fantasy life … but the reality comes free. I have “effortless style”, which means I make no effort. My preferred look is best described as “laundry-dependent” or “found it on a chair.” And yet, my wardrobe begs to differ.

Taking a trepidatious peek into my closet, I’m chastened by the treasures I find. My first discovery is a shimmering, off-the-shoulder red silk slip dress with its price tag still attached. What did this lovely frock ever do to deserve my disdain? A cheeky leopard-skin jacket is still wrapped in store cellophane. Why haven’t I allowed it to prowl the urban jungle?

What crime did that raspberry-red satin blazer commit to deserve exile into sartorial Siberia? I’ve never trusted any of these items with so much as a lunch date.

KATHY LETTE

Nestled among the hangers I also find an immaculate emerald silk jumpsuit. What dazzling future was I expecting it to debut in? Nearby hangs a sharply tailored white tuxedo jacket, its shoulders still padded with tissue paper. Why have I denied it the opportunity to swagger into a room and steal the limelight?

Digging deeper, I’m confronted by a parade of neglected possibilities. What crime did that raspberry-red satin blazer commit to deserve exile into sartorial Siberia? I’ve never trusted any of these items with so much as a lunch date. My heart sinks further when I spot a cerise wool swing coat, patiently waiting in the corner of the cupboard as though expecting a taxi to pull up at any minute.

It’s as if my clothes are on some kind of witness protection program. Why else would I have kept that pinstriped pencil skirt hidden away? I bought it as a “statement piece”, yet have never let it make a statement. I have a “capsule wardrobe” all right – a time capsule (that brocaded velvet pantsuit wasn’t even vintage when I bought it).

And what of that gorgeous cobalt-blue cashmere cardigan twin-set? I decided to keep it for “best”. Well, the “best” moment never came but the moths have RSVP’d, big time.

Even when going on holidays, I don’t pack my good clothes in case they get stained with suntan lotion or sangria. Instead of sashaying about in one of my many sequinned kaftans, my vacation look is generally brought to you by “that’ll do”.

In every other area of my life I abhor waste. No wilting zucchinis and limp carrots left to rot in my crisper. Nope. I turn all leftovers into vegetable soup or exotic pasta dishes. Admittedly, these meals can seem more quizine than cuisine – as in, what the hell has she thrown in this time? (Strangely, nobody has yet asked me for my recipe for sardine soup.) So why, when it comes to clothes, am I so profligate?

A rifle through my underwear drawer offers yet more reprimands. Silk scanties, lace panties, a satin teddy, a black peekaboo bra… And yet what do I wear each day? Sensible granny pants with questionable leg elastic and a grey, fraying bra. I purchased all that lovely lingerie for special sensual encounters. But shouldn’t every sensual encounter be special?

In truth, the “special occasions” women wait for have been happening daily; we’ve just misread the dress code. Well, now is the Anna Wintour of my discontent! From this moment on I’m treating every day as “best”. I’m swanning to the supermarket in leather hotpants. I’m visiting Mum in the nursing home in a taffeta ballgown. I’m wearing my fascinator to the bank and my tiara to the post office.

If every outfit tells a story, why not make yours a blockbuster? My new fashion statement is mischievously tongue-in-chic. My advice? Don’t wait for an invitation from destiny. Just go forth and be fabulous.

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