How much time do you spend thinking about what to wear each morning? It’s a question that has taken on new significance in the past couple of weeks: especially for the menfolk.

You probably want to talk about coats, right? Forget about it. Talk of coats is quite ridiculous. I bought mine in August, and even then it teased me from the shop floor weeks before I made the purchase: my favourite shop assistant was tasked with sending urgent text alerts as the stocks dwindled to danger levels. As a rule of thumb, I like to make my most significant winter purchase on the hottest day of the year and then shop for increasingly thinner layers as the temperature drops. Now there’s frost on the ground, I’m thinking about a nice, flat, strappy sandal.

I celebrated a significant birthday last week by going through a checklist of all the things I have still failed to achieve (read War and Peace, win an Oscar, own an Hermès handbag), revising their potential as legitimate life goals, becoming maudlin and then forensically examining my face for signs of decrepitude. When that proved too depressing, I started forensically examining the faces of other women instead.

There’s something going on in the knicker drawer. After the cami, the big Bridget Jones brief, the Brazilian thong, the Spanx and the sporty, lingerie is going back to the 1990s with a boom in androgynous boxer-hybrids of the type not seen since Kate Moss and Mark Wahlberg first flashed us their Calvins in 1992. Grunge-era underwear – the “grundie” – is back.

While many were aware of his long battle with cancer, news of Oscar de la Renta’s death, due to complications with his illness, have still been met with considerable shock.

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What is a gown? And where does such an extravagant garment belong in a world of denim and parkas?

One of the liveliest debates exercising the fashion world focuses on a suit. No, not the patchwork denim tuxedo modelled by Katy Perry’s new beau Riff Raff at the VMA awards last weekend. Nor the his ’n’ his black-lapelled ensembles worn by Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey to present at the Emmys. Instead, a most ferocious debate has been unleashed by Mikey Dickerson and his decision not to wear one at all.

This September's Vogue Italia cover  © VOGUE

Quite what the collective noun for models might be is debatable (a symmetry? A perfection?). But we should find one, because model gangs are owning the September issues. Read more

The news that the street-fashion photographing power duo Scott Schuman and Garance Doré were no longer romantically involved was announced, appropriately enough, via their independent blogs. “After seven wonderful years, Garance & I have decided to split,” Schuman wrote on TheSartorialist.com 10 days ago.

The Honourable Woman, the political thriller currently reaching its apogee on the BBC, makes a compelling case for the continuing influence of minimalist power dressing. Hugo Blick’s eight-part conspiracy drama, rather dishonourably squandered within the holiday doldrums of the summer schedules (and now airing to US audiences on the Sundance channel), features such sumptuously luxuriously spare tailoring, svelte silhouettes and form-skimming power skirts that one could argue that the Célinification (so named after the influential label headed by the 41-year-old designer Phoebe Philo) of the moneyed elite is now complete. At least onscreen.