‘I live in the middle of nowhere, so why do I still dress like I’m going to the opera?’

Recently I bought a shimmering jumpsuit to wear with platform shoes. I’ve also bought a pair of scarlet clogs, a black lace cocktail dress, and a floral maxi skirt for tropical evenings in the square in the past month.

My wardrobe is full of clothes that would be perfect for a gala in New York or a premiere in Cannes… which is a problem as I live in the remotest countryside of Argyll, in the west of Scotland, and I do much more tend to spend my evenings at the village hall quiz night.

Despite living as far from the glamor of the city as possible for the past seven years, I still find myself buying clothes for the hectic life I led in Manchester and London in the 1990s and 2000s.

I was a columnist at the time, often appeared on TV, regularly interviewed celebrities and was constantly invited to launches, trips and parties.

All this frantic socializing meant I could constantly indulge my passionate love of clothes – often described as ‘theatrical’ by bewildered onlookers.

In fact, in my thirties, I opened a vintage boutique with my ex-husband and was able to fully indulge my love of fashion treasure hunting, as well as dress up for the customers.

I didn’t have any jeans, but if you wanted a neon pink skirt with a lampshade or turquoise patent boots with gold heels from Gina (credit card madness), I was your wife.

I bought Vivienne Westwood clothes on sale and had a centipede closet of high-heeled shoes, piles of faux fur, funny hats, and costume jewelry hanging from every mirror.

I assumed I would dress like a 1930s stage actress forever, but when I hit my early 40s, everything changed. My marriage ended, I met my now-husband Andy, and in 2016 I moved to the (very) rural Scottish west coast to live with him. Fancy clothes are now completely unnecessary.

The parties here are mostly small gatherings in big, draughty houses, where people wear jeans and sweaters and the kind of boots suitable for pushing a car out of a snowdrift.

Sometimes there is a dinner party that calls for a warm dress and wool tights. We have two Spaniels and their long daily walk is across streams, bracken and mud.

I work from home, which requires no more sartorial self-expression than jeans, a sweater, and furry boots. There’s no point in wearing a dress when excited dogs are jumping up and scratching your knees, and there’s little point in donning gold heels when I’m not going anywhere more glamorous than the local Co-op.

I love my country life here and have embraced it all from the star-studded winter nights to the summer loch swims. But when it comes to clothes, I realize I’m hopelessly stuck in my own past.

But instead of accepting my country mouse circumstances, I still shop like a flamboyant city mouse. The last straw was a pair of green satin high heels I bought online. I can barely walk in them, let alone stumble across a muddy track — and if I did, my friends would wonder why I looked like Dame Edna hosting a bingo night.

I told myself I would wear them in Manchester as I regularly visit my hometown to see family and friends. But once there, my social calendar is more “pop tea” than “first night at the opera.”

Despite this, I can’t pass a vintage boutique, charity shop, or sale without going in, and remain drawn like a moth to glamour.

But with unworn clothes languishing in my closet and shoes I can’t walk in, it’s time to face reality. I don’t live a girl’s life in the city – I’m not a girl and I’m 38 miles from the nearest town (the ferry port of Oban, better known for its sea life than its nightlife). Big parties give me a headache. I don’t like being stared at. So what makes me so reluctant to continue my sartorial habits?

“When we settle on a style that we strongly identify with, it can become ingrained,” says cognitive behavioral therapist Clare Flaxen (clareflaxen.com). “Your past style reflects who you feel you are, and that’s not easy to give up — even if your life situation changes.”

I also wonder if my restraint is closely related to the powerful associations I have with glamour. My maternal grandmother, Vera, was a model in the 1930s and had a lifelong gift of elegance in whatever she wore, from her old war jacket to her 1960s Pucci silk dresses.

My greatest joy as a little girl was to throw open her huge Victorian wardrobe and get dressed.

My mother was also no stranger to fashion. She had me in 1970 when I was 21, so I grew up with a young, hip mom who wore rainbow clogs and maxi dresses; then in the

1980s, leopard print sequins and pants. I looked at the mothers of other children and thought how boring they were, with their sensible slacks and belted trench coats. As a teenager I was short and less floaty than my best friend.

I always felt stupid – and for me dressing flamboyantly became a magic trick, a deception of the clothes: ‘Don’t look at my height, look at my incredible velvet coat and my silver high heels!’

While I loved clothes for their own sake, looking back I see how much of my identity was shaped by my need to make an interesting impression. I didn’t have wavy blonde curls or legs like a racehorse, but I did have original 1940s dresses and a Vivienne Westwood velvet jacket.

That desire to look interesting has definitely stayed with me. My husband, who has a small assortment of holey sweaters, hardly notices what I’m wearing indoors. I only dress for myself. But I’m increasingly aware that my choices are stupid at best.

The truth is, I’m tired of longing for a self that’s long gone — and I’m gradually starting to lean toward my new self. I have a warm Fairisle sweater, sturdy boots and a pair of well-cut jeans. I have a quilted waterproof jacket from chi-chi country outfitters House of Bruar.

Maybe I’ll finally unleash my inner fashionista. Though I admit, I hold on to those green satin heels — just in case there’s ever a nationwide fashion emergency.