Skinny Jeans Hogmanay Special

It's time: let's talk about Hogmanay.

Not because we want to: but because we're grown-ups now, and we need to learn to face our problems head-on. Yes, the date is looming – crashing through the calendar like a big, meddlesome relative come to stay, uninvited. The uncle that's not really your uncle, who asks you at the dinner table in a big, booming voice why you're not married yet and makes you feel bad about yourself even though you're only thirteen. See, this is the time of year when the air is thick with 'taking stock', with top ten lists and retrospectives rife.

This is the one night of the year when you're simultaneously required to have the time of your life, and to do an existential stock-take. It's tough stuff, and that's why we must join hands, pool our knowledge, and try to get through it together. In this spirit of sharing, I'll go first:

I am never at the right party.
I am always wearing the wrong shoes.
I am invariably dressed in something I bought four hours earlier, in the sales rack dregs, and now regret.

The first issue we cannot conclusively conquer. This is the big dupe: the New Year Fool's Day joke that's always on you, even if you hear the bells toll whilst swinging from a chandelier in Iggy Pop's mansion, singing Jolene. No matter where you are and who you're with, you'll always wonder if you could be having a better time at another party. You probably could be, but largely it's psychosomatic, so get back on the chandelier, start verse two, and forget about it.
The second two issues are symptomatic of the very specific breed of New Year brain fuzz that sets in and convinces even the sanest of revellers to don inappropriate clothing. You wouldn't set out to climb Mount Kilimanjaro armed only with a halter-top and a glow-stick, so let's get real and sort out your supplies.

Shoes are a minefield: flats are best, but girls, you won't wear them; so stay away from open-toes (in order not to lose one to the black frost) and take a big-ass handbag to stash some flats in for later. Boys; with the no-trainer policy abundant, you'll wear the shiny shoes you crack out for weddings- you know, the ones that laser-cut your ankles? That's what your girlfriend's/girl-friends' handbags are for. This is a team game, so split the cloakroom fee and take a suitcase filled with an arsenal of trainers. For those of you venturing to the street parties, wear (cool again) Uggs, or get down on your knees and pray for your blood supply.

In order to eliminate the Rosemary's Baby-by-fashion syndrome - the mid-party realisation that you're wearing something unspeakably hellish that you can't get away from – you must resist the temptation to get clever. This is no time to experiment (well, not with clothing, anyway). Go with something reliable that you've worn before (even if only at home) so there are no nasty surprises when you sit down, stand up, or dance badly. This particularly applies if you're the night's Designated Drunk. In this case, strapless dresses for the girls and kilts for the boys are suicide. Just imagine that there's a pack of paparazzi following you everywhere waiting to see a wardrobe malfunction: think, "What would Britney do?" and then do the opposite (not a bad mantra for life in general, actually).

Stick with what you know, and then accessorize to change it up, like adding a statement necklace, a belt or, if you're headed to a street party, perhaps a balaclava. If you opt for the latter, you win on two fronts: 1) you're toasty warm, and 2) you can be sure that no one will notice you're wearing the same outfit as last year.

Generally speaking, though, coats are non-negotiable, as are scarves, and the only thing less attractive than pasty white-leg is smarting ice-cold pink-leg, so save yourself and invest in tights, if not a pair of salopettes.
As for the other stuff, the soul-crushing Hogmanay Blues: give yourself a break, know that we're all just faking it, and ask Elvis to grant you the serenity to accept the past you cannot change, the courage to expect a brighter future, and the wisdom to know that New Year makes no difference.
God speed, dear readers, and Happy New Year.