COMMENT: When I left magazines in the late 1990s for the cut and thrust of newspapers, I was shocked by the number of women who considered fashion — and caring how you looked — beneath them.
They'd probably been brought up like me, in the British middle class way: vanity was a sin, splashing cash on anything other than cars or houses marked you out as an airhead.
Unlike me, however, they hadn't flukily found themselves working on Elle and then Vogue, where they would have gained an insight into the size of the UK's fashion industry (recently valued at $64 billion) the craftsmanship at the top level or how much clothes reveal about their wearer.
Over the years, I thought most intelligent people had realised you can be clever and love clothes; care about the Irish border issue and have views about the best shade of pale pink nail polish (open to debate, but I'd nominate Essie's Sugar Daddy).
Even our Prime Minister Theresa May, so intent on appearing dutiful, decent and in touch with hard-working families, long ago grasped that none of these qualities means you can't also appreciate a well-cut pair of Joseph trousers.