I went to a short film festival with Olivia where I met Gail, a stylist with an office on Harley Street. She agreed to meet with me, which I was hoping was not just a tacit indictment of the black and white Urban Outfitters mini dress, circa 2003, that I was wearing.

She painstakingly helped me go through my closet, where I learned that

1) I should not wear turtlenecks

2) I have too much black

3) I need shoes (Hurray! Guilt-free shopping awaits!)

4) I must get rid of all of my old baggy t-shirts; there are only so many shirts I need for working out.

But the best thing of all was that she helped me overcome my F.O.B. (Fear of Belts). I have dispensed with my old Gap belts from when I was wearing jeans to the waist – it’s all low rise now – and I now have a lovely collection of red leather, silver chain, copper medallion and brown breaded belts.

I did not relent to Trinny and Susannah’s “magic knickers” (besides, I’m not sure where to buy them), but I did need some good foundations. I took my trusted friend Cheri to a tiny Italian lingerie shop in Soho. Within moments we were each ushered into dressing rooms and tag-teamed by three Italian ladies adjusting straps, fastening hooks and analyzing shapes with frenzied enthusiasm.

Minutes later we both walked out of the store in a complete blur, having spent way too much money for such small amounts of fabric. But might I say, those Italians know their boobs. We both looked and felt great – a feeling I suspect will last approximately as long as it takes until our MasterCard statements hit the doormat.

I also took care of some essentials. I filled up four charity bags for Oxfam, took two dresses to the tailor and decided to spruce up an old suit with some new buttons. Gail recommended a shop called “Button Queen” near Bond Street. I pictured a girly, glamorous palace of buttons, bangles and some sort of illegal business going on in the backroom. (Really, now much money is there in buttons? They must be laundering money for something.)

Instead I found two curmudgeonly old men in a tiny, dim shop. One had a crazy eye that looked as if it had been staring at buttons for the past 50 years. Occupational hazard. Nevertheless, I found my buttons and revived my old DKNY.

Now the only problem is I still have nothing to wear.