One of the best things in our new apartment is that I now have a dressing room. It comes with plenty of hanging space so that I can see at a glance all the clothes I possess. And what a pathetic lot they are!

So much of my wardrobe is heritage-listed, just waiting for bustles and crinolines to come back. Mark my words, they will come back, since everything does. Who would have thought that those ugly wedgies from the Forties and Fifties with those peep toes that Lana Turner wore in her movies, would be resurrected? Now they are on sale in every cheap and expensive shoe store, so there’s a good chance that my crinolines will come back one fine day.

Looking at my current wardrobe, I see stripes everywhere. What was it about me and stripes? I’d be perfectly outfitted for the slammer or is that only in the movies? I think prisoners wear bright orange nowadays so that they won’t blend into the background.

I have bought a couple of items already and they aren’t striped. Leave the pedestrian crossing look to others, my days of stripes are over. It will be good to indulge in my passion for jackets and coats which was unfulfilled in tropical Brisbane. I also love gloves and scarves and soft woollen clothing that I can swaddle myself in like some Eskimo (sorry… Inuit) in Alaska.

This all sounds pretty terrific, this dressing room of mine, but its one disadvantage is that it has a full-length mirror. Oh, the Horror! The Horror!

Is there anything more demoralising than looking at yourself in a full-length, brightly lit mirror? There probably is, but I shudder at the possibility. When all you could see was just your top half you could wink cheekily at your reflection and face the world with panache . But not when you see the full picture. The effect on your morale is as soul-destroying as that endured in department store change rooms. You want to go hide and come back in another form, more human and appealing. But there you are, in all your natural glory, surrounded by stripes and harsh reality.

It’s when I found myself wallowing in self-pity that I realised why the Prime Minister’s wife keeps dressing in those awful polka dots and flounces, those jackets and short skirts, those tight sashes that hang below the hemline. It’s quite evident that Therese Rein doesn’t have the luxury of a full-length mirror in her dressing room. What she doesn’t get is the impact of Therese in full bloom. She only sees the top half, those cute curls and chubby face, the decolletage that she loves and so she thinks “Go girl!, You’ve still got it!.”

The problem, of course, is that not only does Mrs Rudd still have it, she’s got even more than she ever had. What she doesn’t have though, is a full-length mirror. Lucky her! I shudder to think what will happen if ever she does. There’s something to be said for smoke and mirrors. Forget the mirrors…better stick to the smoke for effect.