I don't wear Pink

About 5 or 6 years ago, I was bought a makeover for a birthday present. It was one of those ones where a woman brings several cheap Chinese pashminas to your house, each one a different shade, and holds them to your face, to determine whether you are a Spring, Summer, Autumn or Winter. To say I was dubious about the process would be putting it mildly. But it was a transformation. She stuck a pure white scarf under my throat and I was illuminated, with a complexion as gleaming as a high energy light bulb. Then she replaced it with a cream scarf and I instantly aged ten years. Amazing. Well, it turned out that I was a Winter. I put together all my non-Winter colour clothes, which was everything except a skirt and one sweater, into several bin liners and gave them away. Then of course had to go shopping, which was the fun bit. She went a few days before me to scope out the clothes, then on the big day we hit Kingston, I headed for the changing rooms and she brought it all to me. And I bought the lot. A whole new wardrobe.And I've never looked back. Have you any idea at all how liberating it is to walk into a shop and pass racks and racks of garish orange or khaki clothes thinking, nope. Not my colour??? The time it saves! And the money! And the queuing in the customer services department!! Brilliant. So the Winter palette includes fabulous rich jewel colours of red, purple, turquoise, blue, bottle green, and I indulge all of them. Except one. And that's pink. The Winter pink is the in your face bright hot colour. I ought to love it. But I don't. Because apart from the fact that I was born into this life as a tomboy, and spent the first 15 years of it climbing trees in fabulously seventies flared checked trousers, my corporate introduction into the world of work included a gender ban on pink. Wearing pink was like pulling photos of your kids out at meetings. It defined you as frippery and superficial, someone who wore frosted nail varnish and drank Baileys-based cocktails. It's a great shame for pink that this should be the case, but despite fashion's best efforts to give it an edge, it remains unapologetically girly. And I am unapologetically clunky. I turn my clunkiness to an advantage by pairing elegantly turned bovver shoes with my wide cut work trousers and an edgy jacket. But try matching it with a pink shirt and the whole thing shrieks Beauty School Dropout. Occasionally I try something pink on in shops, look at it wistfully, then the scales drop from my eyes and the item goes straight back on the rails. Pink swimsuits? For girls who dip their toes into the pool while sipping lemonade. Pink towels? For girls who don't get wet. Pink nail polish? Katie Price. Pink dresses? Ballet class. There is no other colour so uncompromisingly one dimensional. I won't even use pink cupcake cases because of the way they marginalise their contents. A good friend of mine has an all pink kitchen. I get that she's a fan of the colour but if I sit for too long in it, it begins to make me feel slightly nauseous, as if I've OD'd on candy floss. I kind of admire the commitment to girliness, but I can't jump into it. Fire Engine Red. That's what a Gal needs to get ahead. Thank goodness it's in my Winter palette.