I’m a girly girl. My nose is happiest buried in Vogue, interpreting this season’s trends, finding ways of making them work for a 60-year-old with a fear of looking like mutton. Like that 1966 song from British band, The Kinks, I’m a “dedicated follower of fashion”. I love all things girly: manicures and pedicures and facials and trips to the hairdresser; baubles and beads; all things gold and silver and platinum; perfume and nice smelly stuff; foamy bath things. I love clothes and high-heeled shoes (though my six-decade-old feet won’t let me wear them anymore), and handbags. Handbags! They’re something of a passion. I would faint dead away if, for example, someone gave me an Hermès Birkin bag. Dead away. I’d probably only swoon if, on the other hand, I was handed a Bottega Veneta bag with its interwoven leather strips — not that I’d complain. I approve of Botox and facelifts and threading and the micro-blading of eyebrows and lip plumping and earlobe reshaping and liposuction. I wat...

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