Dedicated follower of fashion

When I was a child I thought ric rac and smocking were primitive forms of torture invented by my sewing teacher. When I was 18 I thought they were cooler than cool on my hippie smocks. When I was a child I donned my Mouseketeer ears every afternoon and when I was 18 I proudly wore a tight Mickey Mouse t-shirt tucked into my blue jeans. I'm not sure where this is going, but hopefully I'll find a thread.

I am not a natural sewer and my few creations have made me my own fashion victim: the skirt stitched across the bottom; the dress with a cobweb of threads inside that couldn't be cut in case it fell apart; and the shirt that did fall apart after being worn twice. Luckily I had reached home when the fragmentation occurred.

So, unlike my friend with nimble thimbled fingers (you know who you are), I rely on what the fashion world serves up, which might not necessarily be off the peg or on the pages of style bibles. It's undoubtedly bad timing to be talking about Woody Allen and I don't want to get into the whole she said, he said thing, but I do know that he has had an impact on my life. And who would have thought that one of his major influences was in the fashion stakes. I spent months if not years wearing oversized men's shirts and waistcoats with baggy belted trousers. La di da. La di da. How could you not want to follow in the footsteps of Annie Hall?

Did it matter to anyone else that I was sporting a Klute haircut or could forge my way past Meryl Streep's accent to don ankle-length linen skirts and dusters straight Out of Africa? Was I a dedicated follower of fashion or just someone with a desire to be someone else?

I know how to live a dog's life

Before we got a dog, I was living like one. This is no reflection on my family's circumstances, or the way I was treated. I just decided one day – aged about four – that I was going to be a dog.

My long-suffering mother made me a kennel out of an oversized cardboard box. She patted me fondly and patiently sat out the days until I chose to reclaim my human form.

It's hard to imagine what influenced me to take to the floor because it was years before we got a dog. Maybe I can lay it at the feet of Lady and the Tramp, 101 Dalmations, Rin Tin Tin or even Toto. Pause for thought. (As the man-son says, it's my blog and I'll pun if I want to.) It could have been Lassie, who got off so very lightly in the naming stakes in the eponymous 1950s program compared to Lt Rip Masters and Sgt Biff O'Hara.

Was it the instinct of a  precocious dog lover, or of an egalitarian? In fact, I was drawn by the thought of looking at everything from ankle height. I still over-identify, but now I can do it in a standing position. Those who know me well recognise Yusuf Islam's (formerly Cat Stevens') 'I love my dog as much as I love you' as my theme song.

Taffy was our first. The offspring of our cousins' Sonny, predictably, he was a Welsh Corgi, who less predictably battled the magpies over ownership of his bum fluff. Magpies know no boundaries when nesting. Then there was Sam the Afghan Hound. I don't know what we were doing with a 1960s fashion statement but I do remember his impossibly fine blond hair blowing in the wind when he rode in my mother's convertible.

My son and I were given Max, who was brought up by my German friend Barbara. He arrived with his best friend, a black cat called Panther and a dowry of a wooden armchair. The son quickly put Max's new-found disobedience down to my abysmal German accent. He said the poor dog couldn't understand a word I was saying. I suspect Max knew a soft touch when he saw one.

You gotta love 'em. It's more than the unconditional love and deep-seated loyalty; it's their indescribable joy of just waking each morning and embracing each day with as much enthusiasm as they can possibly muster.

Now, as Cooper the kind and gentle kelpie x heaves his arthritic spine up off the floor, I'm determined this is the last one. I know I've said it before – and I'll probably say it again.