You know the telltale signs: rapid breathing, tension in the fingertips, inexplicable rage. These are all symptoms of the discount demon.

As you watch another woman walk away with the last marked-down dress in your size, a voice inside spitefully whispers: “It won’t even look good on her.”

My biggest flaw? I’m a sucker for a ‘Sale’ sign. That makes January and July the most dangerous months of the year for me.

It’s not that I need new clothes. It’s just that I’m helpless when a sale sign catches my eye.

How dire is my condition? Well, the hanging rail in my closet collapsed in January. For any normal person this would suggest a need to scale down, have a clear out, list the coat that’s two sizes too big on Ebay and give the faded coral dress I haven’t worn in three years to charity.

But for a serial shopper who becomes slightly demented by the prospect of buying new clothes, this only indicated that I required a new wardrobe. I now have two squeezed into my 5x13 bedroom.

Money well spent, because I now have space to fill – an irrefutable excuse to hop on the tube straight to Westfield. I will happily volunteer some of the spiel I use to justify my purchases. Because I know how it feels, having to ward off the disapproving looks of colleagues with a high pitched “Don’t judge me!” after returning from a 20-minute lunch break with a large sale bag from Office.

As I explained to a colleague after accompanying her to have her shoes re-heeled, that kind of problem offers a brilliant excuse for buying more shoes: the more choice you give yourself, the less likely you are to wear down your stilettos.

But when I’m asked where I got hold of my limited edition Longchamp Apache bag for 30 per cent of the original price, I button up.

Sales shopping requires military planning. Your mission: Italian leather boots at 75 per cent off. Your tactics: ruthless misdirection. If you suspect any fellow shopper of seeking the same goal, you direct them three floors up to men’s tailoring, make a beeline for the shoe salon, snatch the last pair from the mutton-dressed-as-lamb contemplating them and march straight to the checkout before the enemy can say “Geiger”.

Now some may think that as a fashion consultant I have a duty to share my bargain hunting secrets with readers. Well you can go fly a kite. Anyone who has experienced the twisted pleasure of getting Jaeger trousers at 95 per cent off (as I did last week) or buying a DVF dress on Ebay for £15 because the seller misspelled Furstenburg (their loss) will understand this.

That knowledge has been acquired through years of sole-searching and bag- hunting in the most undignified manner and places.

The day we share is the day half the population of Didcot rocks up to our favourite vintage fair and nabs all the good stuff before we’ve even had time to put on our summer strappies.