“And not your pattern.” I pick up a paisley midi, in white and coral. “That’s a Wag prosecco dress,” demurs Rowena, who doesn’t believe in mincing words. In a charity shop, I’m drawn to a Lipsy animal-print number.

I return the linen number to Rowena, and we go shopping. I may as well be wearing a colander for a crown.

But catwalks and red carpets are one thing, Peckham Rye in a slitted maxi is quite another. Thom Browne, Raf Simons, Yohji Yamamoto and Comme des Garçons all pushed the look in recent collections. Harry Styles, Pete Davidson and NBA star Russell Westbrook have burned the menswear rulebook, while celebrities such as Kid Cudi, Lewis Hamilton and Oscar Isaac are also feted as straight male skirt kings.

Passersby stare at me with narrowed eyes, like I’m a piece of long division. Men in skirts may be having a moment, but my experience is excruciating. To test the cultural temperature, I’ve borrowed a long black skirt from my friend Rowena, and am wearing it around south London, to see if anyone cares. After wearing lounge pants for two years, men want to liberate their legs. I rarely wear such things outside, because who’s got the guts? This could be the time. I love clothes, including those defined as feminine.

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