I live in the country, where fashion is irrelevant. If I walked through Matlock with a Luella handbag and Prada, no-one would bat an eyelid. Not that kind of eyelid anyway. I might get laughed at. I was once sneered at in the supermarket for wearing spotty wellies. Then again, perhaps laughing is the only right response to high-level luxury. Those saps who join thousand-strong waiting lists for a handbag that looks just like every other handbag. That bizarre yet unbending rule which dictates that the most ludicrous-looking people on earth (Valentino’s tan, anyone?) are the most fêted of its designers. How seriously can one take the whole business?