Undeniably, it is glorious to be woken by the sun glinting through the bedroom blinds, bringing with it the promise of a wondrous summer’s day. However, for me this bliss is short lived.

I am soon plunged into the depths of despair, realising that I now face the dilemma of working out what on earth I am going to wear.

Because, and I’m genuinely not sure how this happened, over the last few years I seem to have managed to replace every item of brightly-coloured apparel with a garment that is decidedly dark.

To be honest, on the average day, I wouldn’t look out of place cast as an extra in the funeral scene of a 1930s Italian movie.

Only photographic evidence now remains to prove that I ever owned, and wore, brightly coloured clothing.

I think the cull began when, in a moment of madness, I tried to become the kind of women I have always aspired to be.

A woman with a neat underwear drawer, each pair of knickers curled up in the cup of its matching bra, ready for lift-off.

A woman who files every shoe with its partner, where they stay loyally wed.

A woman with the current season’s clothing neatly hanging, freshly ironed, in the wardrobe (and the previous season’s packed away between layers of scented tissue paper).

So, several years ago on a wintery weekend, I was productive. I tried to find my Wardrobe Goddess. I tidied all my drawers, found each shoe its sole-mate and bundled up my light, bright and summery clothes and condemned them to the loft.

It didn’t quite pan out how I had intended. The drawers soon regressed to their former jumble, my shoes all divorced and the summer clothes never again saw the light of day.

Ever since that fateful weekend I have existed only in my winter wardrobe. It does make me wonder what my life would be like had I had my productive fit in the summer. Would I now be the kind of woman who spends winters decked out in the colours of the rainbow?

But, as I appear to have more hang-ups than the National Gallery where clothing is concerned, I think not. Every year seems to produce a new part of me that I am no longer prepared to expose. There’s really not much left now apart from my wrists and my ankles.

And as most summer clothing seems to insist that you put a reasonable proportion of yourself on public display, I think it’s probable that I will now always struggle with summer clothes.

Unless I just accept that for me black is summery – it’s the new pink and it will do me and my wardrobe perfectly all year round. At least, until they come up with something darker.