TWO things: one bad, one good. The bad being the ridiculous decision by Oxfordshire County Council – which has forbidden the wearing of goggles in school swimming lessons – to not additionally ban water (in case you get wet and die of exposure), towels (in case they catch fire), changing room lockers (in case they slam shut and sever fingers), pool attendants (in case they’re militant activists hell-bent on brainwashing bathers) and sports centre car parks (in case the walk from your car to the gym triggers cardiac arrhythmia...).

Really, when IS the council going to grow up?

Thankfully, on a more cheerful note, today marks the start of Oxford Fashion Week, now in its third year and bigger and better than ever.

I, of course, have long been associated with fashion – starting at 13 when I asked mum and dad to give me a brown blazer with brass buttons for my birthday.

Not surprisingly, it caused a small sartorial sensation when I first wore it to school and ensured I had the £%$! kicked out of me for the next 12 months.

The following year, to ‘fit in’, I asked for jeans, which saw mum and dad buy me a pair decorated with the words ‘love’, ‘groovy’, ‘hang out’ and ‘baby’ printed in psychedelic patterns (ensuring another year’s bullying).

And then, when I was 15 and wanted to go all ‘leather’ like John Travolta in Grease, mum and dad bought me a second-hand biker jacket which I wore with my National Health specs, my inhaler, and my new Rupert Bear tartan trousers (ensuring grief and misery until my 16th birthday. And so on...).

In fact, I only learned to avoid ‘catwalk’ beatings when I hit my 40s. Yet, bizarrely, this didn’t stop me from getting a job as a fashion writer in London during the 80s.

Because I couldn’t afford a suit, the morning before the big interview I rang a friend of mine who could, and changed into his at Bath Spa train station.

But despite being a very nice cut, it never occurred to me that George is just over 5ft-tall and I’m just under 6ft.

Later, walking into the magazine’s offices, stuffed full of chiselled chins and sculpted noses, the editor took one look at me and shouted: “If you’ve got the nerve to come in here dressed like £$%^&*! Norman Wisdom, I’ll give you 30 days! Take it or leave it.” (I actually lasted three years, mainly thanks to pity).

Today, I love clothes more than ever. Now that I’ve shaved my head, ditched my glasses (for contacts) and discovered cosmetic tanning, I’ve never felt more chipper.

So you can take it from me that I salute Carl Anglim, the organiser of this week-long celebration of dash and flair, for ensuring that Oxford finally takes it rightful place on the global catwalk of taste.

In this instance, it’s a case of collars and cuffs matching perfectly.