Why we should sock it to these sad fashionistas

The other day I sat opposite a girl on the tube who was wearing a pair of knee-length white socks. She must have been the same age as me, it was utterly freezing outside, but she was wearing bobbly patterned knee-length white socks. And people wonder why there’s still a crime problem in Glasgow.

I have never understood this desperate need to dress like someone who has only recently mastered their three-times-table. When I was that age I couldn’t wait to graduate to ankle socks or, the real big-girl stuff - tights. Part of the fun of being young was dressing up, trying on my Mum’s high heels and party dresses, and smearing on the odd streak of illicit lipstick. I was desperate to appear older than I was, to look grown-up and mature.

Now that I am grown-up, though, and careering towards a frighteningly autumnal sort of maturity more speedily than I would like, I have no desire to attempt to recapture my lost youth by wearing clothes more commonly found at a matinee screening of Mulan.

I would, however, be the first to admit to occasional eccentricities in my wardrobe. The other day, thanks to a continuum issue and a nylon malfunction (I was running late and my tights ripped), I spent a rather awkward day at the office wearing a pair of diamond-patterned tights teamed with high-heeled pointy red shoes. An accidental look, granted, but not one I’m in any great rush to try again.

But then I’ve never been a great fashionista. I mix more than I match, and my choices are often based more on what is clean and untouched by cat claws than what is the height of fashion and looks particularly daring. I just don’t have the eye for it. Never have. But I try. I have learned that purchasing one key item (this winter it’s a long black fluffy coat that has people convinced that Anna Karenina is striding down Jeffrey Street) and wearing it endlessly with a wide range of outfits, can often save an entire wardrobe. But put it this way, I am not expecting a call from Anna Wintour.

My best friend, on the other hand, may well be, as she has the sort of fashion sense that would put Messrs Gabbana and Dolce to shame. Blessed with a six-foot one-and-a-half-inch frame more usually found on supermodels and gazelles, she can, and frequently does, get away with anything. Large silver puffa jackets are teamed with electric blue tights and knee-length boots, to startling effect. Large felt flowers poke out behind ears. Mismatched earrings skirt shoulders. And the thing is, she always looks good. Stunning. She has an innate, effortless sense of style that comes across in every outfit she puts together. And I know fine well, without even asking her, that she would never, ever, don a pair of knee-length white socks.

Clothes should be fun and interesting and brave and different. They define you, and the stages of your life. It’s not about dressing your age, but dressing in what makes you look good. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a pair of knee-length white socks because no-one over the age of ten looks good in them.

And frankly, on a 27-year-old woman, knee-length white socks suck.