Anyone that knows me well will be aware that I have more clothes than Victoria Beckham yet never have anything to wear.
This is a not uncommon dilemma among modern women I believe, but I am an extreme case due to my inability to throw anything out, I mean, anything. Ever.
I actually still own my swimming club tracksuit from when I was nine, my babygrows left to me by my mother and a crop top bought from Topshop in around 1989 that I will never EVER wear as its a size eight and hovers approximately two inches north of my belly button.
I will never ever fit in the denim hotpants I wore in America as a lifeguard in 1993, yet to lose them would be an admission that I am no longer young.
Of course, this means my cupboards, my loft and under my bed(s) are stuffed with unworn garments, some with the labels still on because my other two flaws are shopping and over optimism.
Shopping needs no explanation ( I need rehab) but my optimism spans the ambition to finally weigh nine stone, that bright red Levi denim 22-inch bottom flared jeans will be really useful one day and that on a quiet weekend I will locate the time and energy to sell all of these brand new (if now approaching vintage) items on eBay.
My love of shopping extends to finds with my passion of over-priced designer-ware matched by my joy at a bargain.
A supermarket, a charity shop – they are all fair game. I adore vintage finds even though Downton Abbey’s wardrobe department would have a field day in my spare room closet.
I have many shoes but my real flaw is bags. I have an entire chest of them, all of which I’m sure I’ll need… some day.
The habit obviously runs in the family as some are inherited from my mum and my grandmother.
My sister seems to have escaped though. Instead of hoarding she uses my house as some sort of personal clothes lending library.
So every time I can’t face a clearout I ask myself… what would Posh Spice do? Go shopping, of course.