I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of?

I kind of want this bag, and that troubles me.

I don't wear pink. I don't really like pink. I mean, pink itself hasn't really done anything wrong. It has just been misappropriated. And I struggle to separate my feelings about the colour from my feelings about the people who love it so much that they have to buy pink mobile phones and hair straighteners. I actually know someone with a pink iron, and that just makes me sad.

The people who dress their baby daughters exclusively in pink don't make it any easier, a phenomenon that I hold partly responsible for the entire generation of aspiring glamour models we will soon be faced with.

I didn't spend my childhood trussed up in candyfloss like some sort of JonBenet Ramsey figure, and probably nor did most girls my age. I wore little denim dungarees with tiny little plaid shirts under them, and sun dresses in yellow, green, white and blue, and some fetching little velvet numbers in red or navy with white lace collars come Christmas time. Incidentally, I also played with toy carpentry sets and the Millennium Falcon and the Fisher Price airport rather than plastic ironing boards and miniature kitchens.

I will admit that the Matthew Williamson mania of the late 90s did see me in a fair amount of bright pink (and turquoise, and things with dragonflies on them, and skirts over my indigo bootcut jeans) but we'll chalk that up to teenage insecurity and wanting to fit in. Plus, I'm actually thankful for the experience; it was such a terrible look that I credit it with turning me into the monochrome maven I am today.

Ever since then I have had a problem with colour. Colour is what Cheryl Cole wears. Colour is not what you will ever see anyone in the front row of a fashion show wearing, regardless of what's on the runway. And adding the word 'blocking' as a suffix never changes that.

And pink is the epitomy of this antipathy. Pink is my shorthand for people who drink white wine with the girls on a Saturday night and read chick-lit and wear fascinators and satin things from Coast to weddings.

But with Jil Sander's help, and more specifically the help of this, the Market bag from her SS11 collection, I think this could be the season that I rise above my prejudices. Look at me, I'm growing. Or I could if I had £580 going spare.

SS11

Spring/Summer has never been my favourite season, and I'm far more excited about the imminent Autumn/Winter shows than I am about what's about to hit the shops right now. Aside from the fact that the AW shows tend to be where the designers really make their statements, I'm much more of a Winter girl, which renders me freakishly grateful for Scottish weather, and thus somewhat of a pariah in the myriad social situations which demand ritual bemoaning of our nation's climate.

The ubiquitous and tedious conversations that revolve around a longing for summer and the wearing of pumps and short sleeves are lost on me, as are the delights of (at least) six months of the year on those perpetuating this endless moaning, in my opinion.

Saying that, I have sartorial ennui, and am delighted at the prospect of anything new and fresh right now. And the SS11 shows (the ones that were held last October but are telling us what we'll be wearing this Summer, for those who don't keep up with the fashion calendar and yet are still, inexplicably, reading this) had plenty of that to offer.

Most instantly notable is the explosion of Pantone neons on the runways; a clear reaction to the sea of tasteful Phoebe Philo-endorsed camel and navy of AW10.

My favourite example of this, and my favourite show, was without a doubt Jil Sander.

I've been a Jil Sander fan for years, channelling their fresh, uncomplicated Germanic sensibility the only away I could afford (Sun perfume), and could not be happier to see a return to form so triumphant that it stole the shows.

This is basically my dream wardrobe. A stark, clean, voluminous, structured aesthetic in black, white and navy, but with great swathes of hi-tech neons to update it. The three looks above would fulfil my every sartorial dream.

This season's neons are a world away from the heady days of nu-rave we all knew and loved five years ago, although I'm sure American Apparel will be cashing in again. Think Ladurée macarons and hothouse flowers, geraniums and gerberas, rather than fluoro highlighter pens, which this time round must be worn in classic shapes with structure; shirts, gaberdine skirts and prim, button-down dresses.

Predictably enough, with their customary and appropriately Calvinistic minimalism, Calvin Klein was another personal highlight. Still managing to stand out when everyone else has suddenly adopted the pared-down-to-the-point-of-barely-qualifying-as-an-effort aesthetic that has been your trademark since forever is some achievement, but this collection is my favourite from the label in years. With it, they proved that none of these Johnny-come-latelys do minimalism like Calvin Klein.

Severe and yet somehow simultaneously romantic, these beauties would make the perfect blank canvas for my piles of jewellery to corrupt. Ah, Lara. You thought I'd forgotten you but I've never wanted you more.

In stark contrast, my usually beloved Marc Jacobs pretty much broke my heart this season. With this:

The entire collection was similarly hideous. This will do for illustration, as I can't bear to look at any more of it ever again. You can wax lyrical for as long as you like about the clever use of the late 70s as a fitting inspiration during an economic climate that mirrors that time exactly, but you're not going to wear it are you?

Similarly, Mrs Prada appeared to have some sort of breakdown this season:

Fluoro green banana print bowling shirt anyone?

Fugly 70s prints were a worryingly oft-seen occurrence. I've never been a fan of the decade taste forgot. Early 70s rock'n'roll, which was basically a late 60s hangover anyway, I can deal with. But then it all went a bit Marc Bolan and within a few short years people were dressing predominantly in mustard-hued prints reminiscent of the curtains you might hang in a caravan were you inclined to ever set foot in one.

Even irony does not save this look for me. But Thakoon, Rodarte and, disappointingly, Peter Pilotto apparently couldn't get enough of it. Unsurprisingly given their default aesthetic, Gucci made the best job of attempting to inject some sex into this essentially repulsive look, but I'm still not even vaguely interested in wearing it.

While we're dealing with disappointment, we might as well get Chris Kane and Jonathan Saunders out the way. I feel let down on a personal level by both our Great Scottish Hopes.

Christopher Kane, with his Princess Margaret-inspired boxy suits in fluoro PVC-coated lace, was particularly upsetting:

Jonathan Saunders' collection, while less offensive, was all just a bit too Cheryl Cole. I suspect that this will be the high street hit in provinces across the country, and the one most beloved of Glasgow's kitchen beautician crowd, staggering to Boho in their sky high patent platforms.

Lanvin helps me deal with the bitterness:

Alber Elbaz's slightly offbeat version of the colour trend, played out in a more muted palette of crimson, midnight blue, sea green-grey and aubergine, with flashes of chartreuse and raspberry, made this show a standout. The combination of billowing skirts with an athletic aesthetic renders the look totally wearable, as seen already on Blake Lively, my slightly embarrassing but just-can't-help-myself girl crush. While we're on the subject, what the hell is the Kaiser up to making her his new #1 girl when there's a perfectly good Clémence Poésy already out there in the world?

Needless to say, the insect brooches were another massive selling point.

Chloé's USP, in a season awash with eye-watering brights, was ballet. I loved that Hannah McGibbon went right to the other end of the colour palette, and no doubt her collection of crossover tops and ballerina-length skirts in pleated chiffon and shades of white and camel, worn with proper ballet pumps, will be a huge high street success thanks to the Black Swan influence. This is a look I can definitely see myself actually adopting, and I'll most certainly be sticking with my new found signature bun and trusty (haven't washed my hair for a few days) milkmaid plaits in light of this.

N.B. One other notable mini-trend is the rise of a new erogenous zone: the stomach. First seen at Miu Miu a couple of seasons ago, this is a trend that has come into its own, possibly due to the dominance of the maxi length, which rules out former favourite the thighs. This was glimpsed via cut-outs and seen at about half of all the shows, notably at Dior, YSL, Versace, Rodarte and Marc Jacobs (and less notably at House of Holland).

Personally I'm not keen, and not just because I'm a lazy bitch who takes a dislike to people as soon as they tell you which gym they go to. Off the runway and out on the streets, I'm pretty sure this will just translate as tacky. It won't help that the legions of bright orange morons who populate Sauchiehall Street of a Saturday night and are similarly averse to the gym, but not to wearing very small clothes, will make the trend their own.

As for me, I'm planning to venture into the new and challenging world of floor-sweeping maxis, although I'll ease myself in with a black one before venturing to AmAppy to see what they have in terms of Jil Sander pink rip-offs. The maxi trend has been on the brink for a couple of seasons now and I've tried and failed before with a Topshop McQueen digital print rip, but I couldn't walk in it, literally. That was an elegant day.

This season's more voluminous, romantic version gives me new hope. I'll be wearing it Jil/Tilda style with a slouchy white tee and all my jewellery, just so I know it's still me in the mirror.

Similarly, I've been toying with the idea of a neon pink lip (while simultaneously pondering the eternal existential conundrum and Hu Jintao's true intentions) for a while, but now it's a must.

"Can we talk?" Golden Globes 2011

The Golden Globes may not offer the melodrama and scope for environmental/Haiti-concern posturing so beloved of people paid to dress up as someone else on quite the same scale as the Oscars, but the red carpet does tend to be a little more interesting as a result.

In a recent and regrettable fit of economy I cancelled my Sky television subscription so had to wait till today to see what Marchesa/Elie Saab gown everyone went for. On the plus side, I didn't have to listen to anyone awkwardly compliment Giuliana Rancic on her emaciated frame (miss you E! channel).

First up and in Atelier Versace, Elvira Mistress of the Dark decided to spice things up by attending with George Michael, and wearing something not the same colour as her own deadened flesh.

Still don't care though. It's long-sleeved and high-necked, as per effing usual. We get it, your sexuality is so understated. OR: you're a wanton whore who's dead inside (and possibly out) and you stole someone else's husband; style crushing on an elderly resident of The Emerald City isn't going to make us forget.

Paradoxically, Anne Hathaway in Armani Privé is a total success in much the same dress, and hair style, thus proving that Elvira can suck the life out of any look/relationship.

Christina in retro-prostitute look shocker:

Anyone who blogs this and uses the words 'killer curves' is a moron.

Ditto with regards to this hot mess:

I've said before that until Hendricks gets a breast reduction, there isn't much she can do to make any clothes, made by anyone (even, um, Romona Keveza?), anywhere in the world, look better on her. I spoke too soon. There is something she can do: not wear anything with an enormous ruffle anywhere near the boobs.

Angela Chase left her flannel at home, and proved without doubt that pretty much the best accessory for a red carpet/pavement/poolside/going to Tesco gown is a flat chest. Sigh. Appropriately, AngeLICA is kicking it 90s style in Calvin Klein, who's been kicking it 90s style since the dawn of time. But, surprise surprise, it still works for me. And hey, it's in an SS11 acid pop colour, so he's trying.

CZJ Scarlett O'Hara here lost everything she owned in the fire that destroyed Tara. Fortunately Prissy had salvaged the astro-turf they had ordered for the new golf course.

I've been reading a lot of comments expressing surprise over what a state Heidi Klum looks here. God knows why, she always dresses like she has mental health issues. I'm just grateful that for once I can't see her cervix.

By contrast I doubt anyone was surprised by any of this:

Or, I hate to say it, this:

I just about fancy January Jones, she's that beautiful, but she seems consistently incapable of channelling anything but saloon girl on a red carpet, and hellbent on cantilevering her breasts into the most awkwardly built dresses of all time.

Lea Michele has clearly been reading her own press. Because nothing says "I swear I'm not a total bitch" like Peaches and Cream Barbie's hand-me-downs. Saying that, I like it. Megabitch is beautiful, and her skin tone rocks this colour. The structure is amazing, and she looks as fresh and pretty as she knows she is.

Blair Waldorf is shutting it down all over Rachel Zoe's buhnana shop in pre-fall Burberry Prorsum. Amish sensibility? Check. Total disregard for the award ceremony-specific pressure to wear something strapless and colourful? Check. This makes me so happy.

I've never really understood the whole Jen-Lindley-is-so-stylish thing, despite her being the girl crush of choice for some of the most fashion-savvy girls I know. And this is not helping:

This gives me concerns over Valentino's health. He's pretty old now, is this the evidence that he may well be losing his marbles? And if you're going to wear Valentino, for God's sake why not just go for a Valentino Red? Oh, and grow some hair, you're not THAT pretty.

Sweet lord, Mila Kunis is hot. Such a shame there was that mix up at the stylist's that left her with Helen Mirren's dress. It confuses me why else she would have chosen to wear this. It's hideously fussy and clearly designed for someone thirty years older, and I'm sure Rodarte would have sprung for a freebie.

The biggest shock to me of the night was the fact that I DON'T HATE THIS:

Everyone else seems to, and I will admit that my first thought was "pregnancy brain", but it has grown on me. It's very Old Hollywood - an attribute all too easily bestowed on any old thing that's red/black/well-cut/not slutty, but this dress actually does make me think of 30s/40s actresses who wear turbans and smoke through cigarette holders. Weird, but lovely, which is always the best combo. The bag looks like a wallet though.

Next up Rumer Willis (who really should follow her mother down the major-surgical-face-overhaul road). This isn't strictly speaking a Red Carpet Photo, despite the fact that the carpet does actually appear to be red, but maybe Roo Roo didn't get invited to the main event. Which is a shame because she's never looked better. Makeup, jewellery, dress - all gorgeous. And good hair too. Just take that butterfly crap off the waist and we're all good.

Maybe this will help people get the message that blondes really don't suit nudes:

I love the dress, but get a tan for christ's sake. It doesn't make you a worse actress.

Ah, Tilda. When I worked at the Scottish edition of a certain tabloid they were fond of reporting on Tilda Swinton's every movement. This was due to a dearth of bona fide Scottish celebrities, which had the effect of a)provoking a frenzy in the newsroom every time Paolo Nutini, Amy Macdonald and Lorraine Kelly left the house, b)a misguided conviction that Sharleen Spiteri was still in the charts and c)the bizarre appropriation of everyone who had ever set foot in Scotland as "Scottish", which periodically allowed them to print pictures of "Scots celeb" Keira Knightley, whose mother was born here.

Of course, when it came to Tilda most stories (and I use the word loosely) centred on her "wacky!" dress sense, and no doubt they'll be having a field day with this racy little number:

But then, I wouldn't expect readers of a Scottish tabloid that is not the Daily Record to understand Jil Sander.

I love this. It's Miss Jean Brodie goes to Hollywood. Of course, it badly needs a belt, and a statement necklace, and a few of those buttons opened, and shoes that are not the colour of a My Little Pony. But it's Tilda Swinton. I don't want her to wear a sequinned strapless Marchesa. I do want her to wear some bloody makeup though, lots of it.

In a similar vein, I'm actually quite keen on Tina Most Overrated Woman On Television Fey's dress:

Just not on her.

It's navy blue, it's velvet, it has a low, wide V-neck; a lot of the elements I look for in clothes are present. Just picture this on someone younger and prettier (I'm sorry, but it's true), with loose hair, more modern makeup, less self-consciously glitzy jewellery and a much better bag. Slap some long sleeves on it and I can see M-K rocking it to death with straggly waves, raccoon eyes, red lips and a whole mess of tribal/navajo/diamanté necklaces.

And finally... we have a winner:

Hailee Steinfeld's Prabal Gurung is hands down dress of the night for me. I want to get married in this thing. Hell, I would marry the dress.

Here it is in Prabal's SS11 show:

Bravo, Hailee. Bravo.

And what would a red carpet recap be without a Joan Rivers quote?

"I don't exercise. If God had wanted me to bend over he would have put diamonds on the floor."

Jil Sander - Colección de Vestidos para Mujer Moda Otoño Invierno 2010 2011

Jil Sander - Fall Winter 2010/2011 Full Fashion Show