They tried to make me go to rehab...

by Sarah Billingsley

I have a confession. I’m not proud, but as they say, the first step to recovery is admitting you’ve got a problem. If Jeremy Kyle had a ‘fashion offenders’ episode, I would be sitting on the chair in front of the audience, staring shamefacedly at the floor. The camera would pan around the studio, the opening music would die down and the shock-horror title would flash across the screen.

Please, don’t judge. They don’t have rehab for an addiction like this. It’s not even just jeggings, but comfort clothes in general. I’m not talking stylish comfort either - oh no - I’m talking full-on, fleece-lined, heavy-duty comfort clothing. Jeggings are just the tip of the iceberg, too. I have more hoodies than I care to admit, my jeans to tracksuit bottom ratio is pretty appalling, and I own multiple onesies. I could probably pass some of these clothes off as ‘lounge-wear’ if I were trying to be debonair about it but I think honesty is the best policy here. I am, day-to-day, a bit of a clothes slob.

There, I’ve said it. But let’s get one thing straight: I still love fashion, and I admire style. Women who can roll out of bed and look well put-together, I applaud you. Bravo. Girls who cycle past me in some stylish slip of a dress, tousled hair blowing in the wind, I am often a little envious of you as I trudge home with two armfuls of ripping Tesco bags. And for every textbook on my shelf, there is a Grazia, Harper’s or Vogue on my bedside table.

But sometimes, when it’s raining outside, I’m tired to the bone and the third essay of the week refuses to write itself, jeggings, a hoodie and a mug of tea are exactly what the doctor ordered.