Clothes maketh the man

The best evenings are always the impromptu ones. I'd planned to pop to the shops after work to get an eye-catching new outfit for the dreaded party season, and as I was marching up Oxford Street, knocking dreary Christmas shoppers left, right and centre with my brolly, I was tapped on the shoulder by none other than Dame Saskia of Pinkdom.

This bolt of glittery pinkness was a joy in the otherwise monochrome throng of retail Hell and while we had a natter outside HMV (she was telling me how The Devoted Husband has been signed off work for a week with terrible 'flu), who did we spy? Well, if it wasn't Sophia wandering into Urban Outfitter. Another injection of fabulousness into the quagmire!

The three of us decided it would be nice to go for something to eat after nipping into Topshop/Topman. I was expecting to get a whole outfit and I did pick some bits to buy - skinny-fitting moleskin trousers, blue slim-fit checked shirt and skinny black and white tie, all to wear with my grey winkle pickers - but Saskia vetoed the entire look, telling me that I had become a 'generic gay'.

After a tense moment where I thought about grabbing her by her honey-blonde hair, dragging her through the shop and throwing her head-first down the escalators for daring to suggest that I was dressing like everyone else, I agreed that every homo in town was in fact wearing skinny this and skinny that and vowed not to darken the door of the drainpipe jeans again.

We then mosied on over to Cafe Emm and had a delightfully pleasant meal and gossip and I managed to get in at a respectable 10:30pm.

Now though, I need to focus all my attention on evolving my look. Heaven forbid I should carry on looking generic.