It is 6.45am, dark and I'm standing in my local newsagent's wearing bed hair and a skintight pair of leather trousers with heels. Yes I know how it looks, thank you. I could shout: "No, I haven't just been on the game, honest – ha ha!"
But judging by the mildly appalled looks from van drivers popping in for fags and the Daily Star I doubt I could drum up much business anyway. So I just buy the papers and totter out. Or rather "swoosh" out.
Because when you wear leather trousers the swishy sound they make at every step is as if you're carrying a tiny pair of maracas.
Before today I have never worn leather trousers. But in the 1990s, when I was old enough to know better, I bought two pairs of PVC trousers, one in black and one, God help me, in cream, which made my backside look the size of Frank Sidebottom's papier-mâché head.
This pair feels like silk compared with the squeaky PVCs. The leather's so thin they could be leggings and, by Jove, they don't half warm up your thighs.
No one bats an eyelid when I wear them (without heels) on the school run. But this is Liverpool, where I've seen women dropping off kids in anything from shiny cerise disco pants to pyjamas.
I wear them to Tesco where no other person is doing likewise. Most people, aside from those unhinged by a midlife crisis, know the leather trouser truth: unless you're a dewy young thing, resist.
You might fancy you're channelling Beyoncé, but if you're the wrong side of 35 the effect will be more Liz McDonald, the former tarty pub landlady from Corrie.
Lest you're wondering why I'm here photographed in them, let me tell you it was with extreme reluctance.
If Demi Moore (left) looks questionable in them, what chance have I of not looking like heifer dressed as calf?