Being glamorous out here in Snowsville is chuffing difficult. And I was only reminded to be bothered about it because I saw a woman in high-heeled, knee-high boots on Tuesday battling  up the high street in two feet of snow.

My first thought (because when life consists of wading through slush with a ton of shopping or being frozen inside your car, things tend towards the prosaic) was: ‘Christ alive! She’ll break her neck!’

Probably in the voice of a Northern Dad.

My second thought however was…’ohh! High heels…*sigh*’ in a reminiscent-y, sad voice, pining for the days when I didn’t dress like a fourteen-year old boy with a sweatshirt material obsession

When I first quit London, I did a small internal joy-dance that I’d no longer have to care about how I looked when I left the house.  This joy subsequently ran away with me and I now regularly go out resembling a small, shambolic pile of un-ironed clothes.

I also wear hoodies. And I am thirty three years old.

Now, perchance you just frowned in distaste, maybe even yelled a horrified obscenity. Reader, you would be justified.  A thirty-something woman in a hoodie is an abomination. There’s something innately disturbing about it that makes the inside of your face itch; like seeing your science teacher in jeans, your mum in a mini skirt or Chris Hollins in plunge-front, be-spangled Lycra. 

A thirty-something be-hoodied woman screams ‘ASBO!’  It positively yells out ‘rehab!’  Alas, it also says: ‘living in a ski resort along with other thirty-something women in hoodies, like some sort of twisted, soft-clothes-favouring commune.’

I binned Glam back in 2004. I now use eyeliner when someone wants to leave a phone message and I can’t find a pen. I use my Walford tights to hold my hair back when I am dragging nasty hair-ropes out of the shower plug hole. I no longer have my cherished denim mini (it was frivolously donated to my friend Ed, a strapping six-footer who was going to a local party dressed as a prostitute). 

And as for my high heels…well, let’s just say the spare room at my parents’ house looks like an explosion in a Russell and Bromley sale outlet.

Any attempts to be glamorous in snowsville are swiftly jettisoned the first time you think it’d be a nice idea to leave the house in a lovely silk vest and promptly feel your nipples turn into wing-nuts in minus fifteen temperatures. And anyway, ironically, turning up to a bar out here in a boob-tube or sequined mini-dress earns you exactly the same kind of ‘WTF?!’ looks that you would receive wandering into a chic soho cocktail bar wearing, well…a hoodie.

Make-up is also swiftly eliminated as wearing ski-goggles, combined with time in the sun on the slopes earns anyone out here for an extended stint a sort of odd, lower-face suntan which makes you look as if you’ve constantly got five o’clock shadow. When teamed with any sort of cosmetic product it makes even the most female of females resemble a prop forward in drag.

It is nice not to endure self-inflicted fashion pressure, but sometimes me and the hooded ladies will gather together and fantasise about inappropriate footwear, pointless handbags and things not made of Gore-Tex fabric (which although spectacularly useful are about as feminine as a bucket made of wood.)

I often wonder what Victoria Beckham – well-publicised skiing fan – wears when she’s hidden in her chalet, away from prying paps. And whether lurking inside that vast Birkin is a pair of stinking ski boots (they all stink. Even Victoria Beckham’s. Like an unholy marriage of dead ferret and Camembert), thermal granny pants and an eyeliner pencil. In case she has to take down a telephone number at the last minute.

Oh! I like her better already.