Question: Why are vampires so sexy, and why are they so very much in vogue at the moment? Of all the ghoulish undead, I believe vampires are the only ones we lust after, but why? Were they perhaps the first to realise that the neck was an erogenous zone?

If you haven’t noticed that vampires are hot shit right now, you must be living on another planet. Whether it’s sexually frustrated teenagers in the Twilight books or rampantly sexual frolickers in HBO’s True Blood, vamps are everywhere.

In popular culture, vampires have long been depicted as suave, good-looking gentlemen, likely to whisk a woman off her feet. True, this is generally so they can have their wicked, bloodthirsty way with them, but somewhere along the way the women tend to forget this and fall in love them (some women really will do anything for a date).

The main issue that arises is a feminist one – is the love that women have for vampires inherently sado-masochistic? I remember reading an article that argued the Twilight books were hugely misogynistic, presenting us with an abusive relationship in which the female offers herself up to her vampire lover, heedless of what he may do to her. Whilst I felt this reading to be a little far-fetched, the journalist had a point –finding love with a man whose primal instinct is to murder you does not spell out “healthy relationship”.

This feminism vs. vampire issue was almost thwarted by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show which featured a kick-ass (literally) female character sent to vanquish lifeless lotharios. Sure, she fell in love with one of her targets on the way (she’s only human), but her love was pure and wholesome – his name was Angel for Christ’s sake. This was all well and good, until Angel left to make his own spin-off show and the writers had to find a new love interest. Cue another brilliantly inspired name: Spike. Peroxide of hair and clad entirely in leather, you knew this boy was bad news. Their relationship was a hell of a lot hotter than anything she ever had with Angel, but it definitely sent feminism back a few notches.

So we come to True Blood, by far the best thing on television at the moment. There’s so much sex in this that you might as well be watching soft-core porn, but at least the women are now on equal footing – yes, we still want to shag the vampires, but at least in this show it’s a recreational sport, and one that’s enjoyed as much by the women as the vampires themselves. They’re known as “fang bangers” (how brilliant is that?) and they certainly know what they’re doing. Now, if all the female characters that sleep with vampires could just stop winding up dead, we’d really be on to something…

Ankle Boots

Summer has finally reared its beautiful head, and London is at last hot and sunny. But fashion bows down to no weather forecast, and so we are forced to follow the unlikely shoe craze of the season – the ankle boot.

Ankle boots have been on the fashion periphery for some time now, peeking out from under overly long trouser legs or worn with ripped tights à la Peaches Geldof. But the A.B. has now soared into the sartorial centre, and no ankle must be left uncovered.

It’s hot outside, and feet sweat, I’ll give you that. But fear not, because fashion has the answer to all your foot related woes, and that answer is the open-toed ankle boot. I kid you not. Have you ever heard of anything uglier or more illogical than peep-toed booties? Oh wait, now I have – the gladiator boot. Yes, that tireless Summer workhorse has been transformed into an Autumn-friendly shoe. Except that isn’t the point of wearing boots to keep the rain out, not to let it in?

So we’ve learnt that the new generation of ankle boot is not particularly aesthetically pleasing, but at least it must have some magical leg-transforming properties that we have hitherto been unaware of…? No, it does not. In fact, these babies cut your leg off at exactly the least flattering point, making them look a good few inches shorter.

The moral to this story is either have abnormally long and gorgeous legs, or don’t wear ankle boots. Your call.

I wouldn’t say I am the Queen of Relationships, but I tend to be reasonably sensible with my choices in men, or at least more sensible than some. But saying that, I think I must now question the most important relationship in my life, one that has been going on for over ten years. That relationship is with Liverpool FC.

If Liverpool were a man, he would be that bloke that gave you the best first date of your life – sparks were flying, the banter was great and the goodnight kiss was out of this world. But get to the real relationship clincher, and it all fizzles out. So much promise, but they can never quite deliver the goods. I, and millions of others, have been waiting for Liverpool to hand us that one trophy that has been twenty years in the coming, but after today’s performance I can see we’ll be waiting a lot longer. Liverpool is the footballing equivalent of that man who just won’t put a ring on it.

Let’s take a look at the other big four, who all managed to win this weekend. We’ll start with Arsenal, the baby of the gang. If Arsenal were a man, he’d be that young guy who’s always so eager to please but never quite catches your attention. You brush him off, thinking there must be someone better. And then you bump into him with no make-up on in the supermarket while he’s with some six foot blonde and realise that actually no, there isn’t anyone better barking up your tree, and you could really do a lot worse.

Chelsea is the flash geezer, a bit full of it but with bags of charm. The footballing equivalent of the wanker banker, he’d turn up in a sharp suit and an even better car, whisk you off for a night of extravagant romance, and then dump you the next morning for the first thing he sees in a short skirt. Still, at least you know where you are with him.

Manchester United is the one your mum wants you to date – solid, dependable and always a success, he probably won’t leave you for the first tart he sees. But he’d be so bloody smug about everything that you’d want to slap him silly. And let’s face it, nobody wants to date mummy’s favourite.

So if you want any kind of surprise or intrigue, it has to be Liverpool. Sure, they’ll probably let you down when it counts the most, and there’ll be many tears and much heartache, but every now and then they’ll do something so bloody fantastic that you’ll wonder how you could ever have dreamt of chucking them. Here’s hoping they do a bit more of that this season.

This will be a regular feature of my blog in which I will tackle some particularly tricky element of the fashion world and try to figure out whether it’s wearable by us mere mortals. Today, hosiery.

It is an odd time of year. Well, it’s not so much that it’s an odd time of year but that it’s not behaving as it should. It’s mid July – it should be hot and sunny. The actuality is that it’s mostly grey and raining, occasionally warm and sticky. The real issue is this: what do us beskirted girls wear on our legs?

Having been working in an office for the past two weeks, I’ve been dealing with this dilemma daily. Too cold for bare legs, too hot for proper tights. But let’s face it, flesh-coloured tights are generally hideous – they’re never the right colour to match your skin tone and are usually (bizarrely) shiny.

So what to do? Well, I can tell you what NOT to do – under no circumstances should you wear fishnet tights. Even though you may think they’re the perfect solution – hosiery with built-in ventilation – they are wrong on so many levels. I saw a woman at the bus stop yesterday wearing them, which actually prompted me to write this post, just to remind people that fishnet tights should only be worn for fancy dress. And even then only if you are dressing up as a prostitute, which, let’s face it, you probably shouldn’t be doing anyway.

I am aware that I have not provided an answer to this predicament. The answer is, there isn’t one – I’m currently wearing Marks and Spencer’s 60 denier opaque thermal tights, because they are all I have. I am very hot.

I am still undecided as to whether being left-handed is a help or a hindrance in life. On the plus side, left-handedness has often been linked to greater intelligence, and three of the last four American presidents were left-handed (considering the statement on intelligence no prizes for guessing which one was not). On the down side, I’m not very good at cutting wrapping paper.

Sometimes my left-handedness has come in handy as an excuse, usually used by my mother as a means of explaining anything I’m not good at: “It’s not her fault she has dreadful handwriting, she’s left-handed”, “No her fingernails weren’t cut by a blind person, it’s because she’s left-handed”, “Oh yes it is quite normal for her to smack herself in the face with cupboard doors, it’s because she’s left-handed”.

Being a leftie recently raised a whole new set of issues when I went to teach and travel in India for five months. Indians use their right hands for everything from writing to shovelling food into their mouths, and their left hands for wiping their bottoms. This made commonplace things such as eating and shaking hands decidedly difficult for me, as instinctively I lead with my left hand. The alarmed looks I received whilst pushing grains of rice into my mouth with my left hand made me want to cry out “I don’t do that with this hand! I use loo roll! I’ve got it in my bag! Do you want to see it?!” But I didn’t. Children mocked me when I wrote on the blackboard and rickshaw drivers wouldn’t even accept money from my left hand. It began to make me feel very depressed about being a leftie, I must say.

But to be honest, being left-handed has always given me a secret sense of pride. It gives me that special little edge over most other people and, as an only child, I like to be special. I’ve also convinced myself over the years that being left-handed is some kind of sign that I should be a writer, as left-handedness is supposedly linked to a natural aptitude for language. Here’s hoping anyway.