That's … got to be good news for the fashion industry!'' It's, ah, amazing that 'they' keep coming up with innovative things - even in 2012. ''It's a top-notch item,'' he says, staring at it. Unable to make out a word they are saying, he panics. My dress and zebra-sandals are essentially shouting at him in French. Unfortunately, however, Pete does not speak the language of clothes.
Everything we wear is a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter - or, sometimes, just an exclamation mark. In this Pizza Express we are having dinner in.''
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The women who love you recite back to you the aspiration and impact of your ''look'' - hence a group of eight of us being able to greet our friend Hughes with, ''Post-divorce slutty secretary - but with unexpected neon rave-stilettos! You're a sexy lady who will not cling to one man tonight, but seek the communal ecstatic uprising of a room full of party-goers instead. This is what women do - tell each other what story their outfits are projecting, by way of confirming that the wearer has got it right. You're essentially saying you're a liberal - but with big tits. My sister Weena, for instance, would have greeted me with, ''You're perverting the assumed prejudices of postwar chicks, with some kind of 'demented gay Ghanaian disco' vibe. Were I with any of my female friends or relations, they would have understood this instantly. I don't know if this ''lysergic safari'' thing is working. Basically, I need to know if I look like Lady Ace Ventura: Pet Detective in it. I'm wearing it with zebra-skin sandals, and a snakeskin clutch-bag. It's a 1950s tea dress in shape - but in pattern, it's got an African-textile theme going on. The dress I am in is a bit of a new development, in terms of my ''fashion range''. Unfortunately for Pete, ''You look so thin in that'' is not the droids I am looking for in this particular conversation. Have a great night out,'' he says - going back to staring at his Fotheringay mug, which depicts the whole band as 15th-century minstrels. He clearly thinks all the business has been concluded. ''You look so thin in that!'' Pete says - delighted to be back on firm ground. And second, that every time I appear in front of him in a new outfit, he must say, without hesitation: First, that he must never, ever throw me a surprise birthday party in our front room again. Twelve years ago, shortly before our wedding, I told him - with the kind of fearless honesty that lovers can afford - that I would only ever impose two rules on our marriage. Pete is immediately contrite - ''Sorry!'' - but also back in charted territory again.
''Do you … want a lift to Finsbury Park?'' he asks, eventually. The rat does not know exactly what is going to happen next - but it knows it's going to be bad. I can sense his heart rate accelerating, like a panicked lab rat on sighting a speculum. Pete can tell there is some manner of urgent business left unattended here - but he does not know what. Send my love to … whichever bunch of arch, chain-smoking homosexuals you're on loan to tonight.'' ''Make sure you've got your keys!'' he says, cheerfully.
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