Hard though it is to believe that I'll soon be basking in 26-plus degrees, a pile of summer clothes waits on the spare bed to be packed. I'm thrilled by the prospect of a week of Vanuatu's sea and sun, and all-round self-indulgence, but I can't help wondering why summer clothes are so much less interesting to me than winter.
It comes down to fabric and texture, I think - a certain lack of substance that, necessarily, carries through into design. Summery clothes are soft, flimsier, girlier. They gather and flare rather than fit to form. They need ironing. And I hate getting the ironing board out of the cupboard as much as I hate getting out the vaccuum cleaner.
Nevertheless, I did pick up a heavyish cream cotton Starfish skirt the other day from Madison Rose. A wide dropped waistband, with a few narrow unpressed pleats rather than gathers (which will always look 70s peasanty to me), and huge interior pockets. It looks nice on and will be just the job for a hot climate. Its secret joy, though, is the standard of workmanship that's gone into it.
Meanwhile, outside it continues boots and coat weather. Which reminds me that sandals will never ever outdo boots and shoes for real style, either.