The sender thought it was cute but it strikes me as a bit odd. There is a quip attributed to Einstein that springs to mind on these occasions: that two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity. A parent sharing pictures online of their offspring’s peachy bums painted orange and green is taking creepy to a new level — but even worse, it reminds me that my least favourite time of year lies just around the corner (in a dark alley dressed in a fright wig).

Halloween. How I hate thee. Once confined to a tacky corner in Poundland, now there are entire aisles of Waitrose devoted to cheap orange landfill. And don’t even get me started on that cobweb spray decorating every Nisa cornershop shelf from Haringey to Hackney.

Who’s the holiday for anyway? I was under the impression it was a kids’ thing. Halloween used to involve sweet seven-year-olds dressed as black cats in dance-class leotards and tights bobbing for apples, and offered them a joyous opportunity to stay up past bedtime.

Now it’s all about taking a selfie in front of a trendy gourd display on your mid-century sideboard, or Sue, 47, of Ealing, squeezing into her eldest daughter’s school uniform with a pair of stripy tights because “it’s scary but sexy”. Really?

Certainly, I’ll be carving a pumpkin but I won’t be dressing my one-year-old daughter in a costume my friends will find amusing simply to garner likes on Instagram. I have no desire to scare the living daylights out of kids or make them look like fools for the sake of a naff picture. That’s a no from this old witch.

There are small mercies: as far as I can see (and I’ll be watching), we haven’t gone to the sinister lengths of our cousins across the pond ... yet. Americans have a bizarre habit of dressing their toddlers as truly scary and unacceptable characters — think Hannibal Lecter tied to a board with a muzzle, a sexy mermaid in prosthetic breasts, a packet of cigarettes, or even condoms. Joking aside, images of this cruelty exist online and I find it disturbing.

If you’re not a pagan or Wiccan, then Halloween should just be a bit of light-hearted fun. Best practice is: buy some sweets for the trick-or-treaters (always say “treat” — don’t be a knob and make them juggle) and, if you’re taking the kids “begging”, then hold their hands, steer clear of lit pumpkins and, most important, let them decide what to dress up as. Dead Disney Moana, anyone?

Picture the racing pundit John McCririck in a floral Erdem dress and Jimmy Choos and you’ve got a mental image of me as a I reveal my runners and riders in the soon to be crowned Fashion Awards, the annual London Oscars of the sartorial world.

The nominees for the red-carpet ceremony in December are in and my votes go thus.

First gong of the evening, the Business Leader award, should go to … Ruth and Tom Chapman, Wimbledon natives and a brilliant business duo responsible for changing how Londoners shop with their recently sold, trailblazing business Matches Fashion. Many London designers owe them a debt of gratitude for backing their careers.

Next up is Designer of the Year, which should go to Phoebe Philo. If the rumours are to be believed, this Ladbroke Grove lady is leaving Parisian super-brand Céline for pastures new after showing, what I thought, was her best collection to date in the French capital recently. That said, the award will probably go to Raf Simons for his excellent work at Calvin Klein.

When it comes to bags and glad rags, Stuart Vevers has found the sweet spot between affordable and super-cool high fashion, reinventing American mega-brand Coach — he gets my vote for Accessories Designer of the Year.

And Model of the Year? It has to be ES Magazine cover girl Adwoa Aboah — this super-bright, strident beauty is so much more than a pretty face. Her work with female empowerment project Gurl Talk deserves a gong in its own right.

Why cosiness is the new luxury

My old flatmate, Tom, used to call me “Bridget”. While he was out frequenting east London pool halls and pubs, I would be in our flat with my cat dominating a familysize Cadbury’s Whole Nut, in my fleece, being a bit Bridget Jones.

And do you know what? I LOVED it. You can call it hygge, lagom or self-care Sunday but it’s all just “cosy” to me. Cosiness is next to godliness.

It’s a fine art, a hobby almost, that warrants three drawers of pyjamas and loungewear, which I rotate with pride.

And what about refreshments on this night in, you may ask? Well, let me tell you — I drink a hot Ribena (if you know, you know).

My cosy time isn’t wine-based — lucidity is key to a cosy night’s enjoyment. How else would I keep up with the cerebral calibre of television I watch? TOWIE can be taxing.

Some may say “she’s slovenly”; I say cosy, my friends, is the new luxury.Read more at:formal dress shops brisbane | red formal dresses