What is this obsession that us womenfolk have with shoes and handbags? How often do you hear some otherwise stable, normal woman feigning embarrassment as she confesses to another female that she has hundreds of each. Sex and the City has us all making a mockery of ourselves. We like to see ourselves as Carrie, who spends the equivalent of a reasonable mortgage on her Manolo’s and Samantha, who risks her career for a Birkin. We boast about how broke we are because of our obsessive behaviour. How weird are we?

And, like, these names are second-nature to us these days. We’re somebody because we can tell a Turkish rip-off Gucci clutch from the real deal without even having to sniff it.

I was one of them. I remember striding purposefully towards the Prada section in our high-class department store exactly 15 years ago and buying my first Miu Miu bag and shoes to wear to a fashion show that night. I also bought a silk, short, black Jil Sander skirt, reduced to £110 (I can’t remember from what!). I felt I had arrived. I was a woman of the world. I looked sassy, confident and cool. That’s what spending over £500 in an hour did for me back then.

But you know, it has stuck me more recently as I’ve matured and, more often than not, stuff a few notes, tissues and my phone into my jacket pocket rather than choosing a bag from my excessive collection, that I never actually crave other people’s bags or shoes or even clothes. I never follow women in the street to try and work out what that tiny scarlet creation they are hugging under their arm is and where I might get one. I’m never tempted to holler after someone “stop, they’re magnificent wedges….House of Fraser, Harvey Nicks or Ferragamo on Via Dei Condotti?’

So, if we don’t buy expensive shoes and bags to be the envy of others or for others to admire, why do we risk bankruptcy for such frivolous accessories? Confidence? Yes. We feel sexy and if we feel sexy, then surely others will see us as sexy too? Perhaps. But, you know, I think we try too hard.

I got out of my car recently in a supermarket carpark and started walking towards the entrance and couldn’t help but notice one particular woman in front of me, pushing her trolley. It’s one of the few times that I have felt serious envy. In fact, not so much envy as sheer, unadulterated admiration. She exuded cool, sexiness and confidence. She outshone all the other women around her. She wasn’t tall or glamorous or stunning looking. She wore a pair of sweat pants and runners and a fine, v-necked jumper and she had her hair in a ponytail. She hadn’t a shred of make-up on (yes, I admit, I caught up with her, passed her out and then looked back as though waiting for someone to catch up with me). But there was something about her poise and the natural way she moved her hips and how completely devoid of fuss or ceremony she was that just catapulted her above everyone else in the area. Many, many miles higher. I was completely captivated by her.

How many times have I heard men say that they prefer a woman without make-up and how many times have I laughed and said “yes, but that’s only because you don’t realise that even the natural ones are wearing it”? Not this one.

If only I had had this revelation 15 years ago, I could have saved myself an awful lot of money and Crème de la mer would probably have ceased trading by now.