Anyone who knows me well will confirm that for 51 weeks of the year, my fashion knowledge; indeed fashion interest is non existent.

When I’m not at work, I’m much more likely to be found in slightly tatty gym kit accessorised with some grubby gardening gloves and a pair of snow boots.

Fashion became more about comfort and utility somewhere around the late 90s, and as I seem to spend most of my spare time outside, warmth and comfort are really the only factors I consider during the daily dressing ritual. Thankfully, wearing a uniform for work negates any fashion dilemmas on that front too.

On the 52nd week of the year, I – along with a significant number of my anti fashionista friends and comrades – am transformed into a would-be catwalk stylist. The Oscars!

What is it about this relative non-event that brings out the need to criticise, coo and aah over outfits worn by women I don’t recognise; let alone know the names of? Female solidarity? What female solidarity? You’ve not heard bitching until you’ve watched a bunch of middle aged women eyeballing the red carpet frocks and passing their opinions on the fashion successes and mistakes.

In any other situation, the thought of criticising anyone based entirely on what they are wearing would be appalling, but for some reason all bets are off the day after the Oscars.

If you listen to me, you might think I actually knew the first thing about fashion.

I’m surprised I haven’t been given my own show after my observations on how Cate Blanchett’s dress was too fussy, Anne Hathaway’s dress too boring but Kate Hudson’s dress very flattering.

Somehow us women think that the Oscars give us carte blanche to pass judgement on cleavage depths, waist widths and colour compatibility.

If anyone did the same to me, I’d be pretty offended. It’s the professional equivalent of some other dentist leaning over my shoulder and passing judgement on not only the filling I’ve just done but the outfit I wore to do it in.

I suspect that most of the outfits are gifted; there can be no better advert for designers than seeing their creations worn on a red carpet. Somehow there’s no reciprocal arrangement in dentistry, I’ve yet to be asked to be a model for face masks and disposable latex gloves: but at least I don’t feature in the pages of Hello, with a corresponding article about lack of muscular tone or fake tan tide marks.

I guess this may be one of the un-perks of being an international movie star, and why I opted for a career in dentistry rather than in film. I’d never have been able to keep up with the fashion, unless worn-out dog walking gear and a faint wiff of mud suddenly becomes on trend.

If anyone knows a director looking for someone to play the lead in a blockbuster about a part-time dentist with no fashion sense, point them in my direction. I’ll see if I can’t put a different slant on the Oscars red carpet this time next year.