Women that wear outdoors clothes in everyday life frighten me. They have stern faces which are saying �I could take you down; I could take you down in a wrestle, bitch and kick you with my sturdy shoes.� They are walking around the paved streets of London, shops, the supermarket and so on dressed in preparation to encounter hillocks, potholes, barbed wire, gates and mud. Where are you going mountaineering round here missy? They are the type of female who let the body hair flow free and have wild eyebrows. Whilst this is the case I am pleased that the policy is strictly trousers and nothing down there is to be displayed because I would have nightmares for the rest of my life. Although I am all for a slouchy backpack.

This fear may have arisen from an early deep hatred of an outdoorsy female PE teacher (pain is good girls!) that I was convinced was a man for a very long time. In fact it was only the hint of bra under a very daring white polo shirt that assured me. I am certain that hurdling in the rain is dangerous. In fact, I am sure hurdling in itself is dangerous. Or it may come from the fact that I adore fabrics, materials, colours, silk, thread, tailoring, texture, ripples, creases, craftsmanship, light, shadows and on forever. The touch and scritch scritch noise of waterproof material makes my throat and fingertips close. Or it may come from the fact that I love breasts and there is absolutely no way Mrs big n� baggy (SWISS SKI ALPS 1994) is accenting a gentle hint of d�colletage.

I took my puppy out for his first walk today and after a little apprehension he was trotting along, strutting his funky stuff to all the ducks, squirrels and children on their way home from school. He made his debut in his brand new stylish red lead and collar. He then walked to work and showed off to my boss. It really is something to see a 50 year old Mighty Power on her knees in her glamorous pencil skirt rapturously being snogged by a dog.

Inky