I'd love to convey the impression that I am spending London Fashion Week dashing from show to show in a blue turban and some dreamy spring floral crops; touting a Mulberry stuffed with raw almonds, a vial of Absinth by Nasumatto and a personalised Moleskine sketchbook; and frowning charmingly as I decide whether Todd Lynn's smooth, slippy monochrome leather layers evoke luxe Zen-villain chic or wipe-clean human condoms.
On the other hand, I'd settle for suggesting that I'm out saving the world in home-made dungarees with fair-trade children and organic scientists, disdaining this seasonal circus of obsessive-compulsives, anorexics and elitists that makes women believe that their greatest achievement in life would be to make like a neon giraffe in a pair of Christopher Kane's Sunny D-meets-liquorice-lace heels.
I am, of course, not cool enough for either. Despite being a compulsive observer and intellectualiser of fashion who rarely gets to wear a designer stitch, I still love LFW's whole riotous wankstorm of pseudo-political aspirational creativity and craftsmanship. I am a classic couture Cinderella who ogles the action on my laptop (and even my tube journey) while styling my Uniqlo jeans with a new chartreuse belt just in case the sreet style facehunters mistake me for someone going to the ball.
And I'm happy enough with the scraps of beauty I can scavenge via video, image and overheated, Americanised reportage. One day, I might get to experience the atmosphere, to study the seams and smell the sweat for real. Until then, I hover at the edges of the fashion fairytale and steal what magic I can.
Which, this season, mainly involves moving beyond my usual dove-grey, dusky-pink, nude and dulce-de-leche layers (I think ethereal; you see anaemia) towards rich grown-up colour (all hail Roksanda Ilincic's bronze goddess) and touch-me texture (from Julien MacDonald's feather and fur to Christopher Kane's glimmering aqueous plastic); I've definitely been inspired ditch the Black Swan ballerina and cultivate some true grit.
Clothes maketh the woman, and the woman (when she feeleth good in her clothes) goeth oneth to maketh great things.
Shallow doesn't come into it.