I find myself today trying to undertake some personal spring cleaning.

Shoes are shined, laptop case polished, suit cleaned and, after exploring the darkest reaches of the cupboard under the sink (who was it the Moomins who lived under the sink ?), I found the silver polish to clean my tie clip.

All this personal care, so late in the season and late is life, is due to the fact that I have to do a presentation of the project we have been working on. Normally standing up and talking to a room full of strangers isn’t a problem to me, nor is the fact that what I’m showing them has an unerring habit of sulking for 50 minutes, refusing to work or even respond despite all our coaxing. It’s the fact that the room will be full of French men.

Almost everywhere I have travelled in Europe I have shuffled along feeling shabby and concious that all those around me look well dressed and confident. From Barcelona to Stockholm, Prague to Paris Europe seems to have style. Clothes fit well, colours co-ordinate and people stride along looking like they walked off a catwalk just around the corner.

If you’re reading this in the UK go look down your local high street. The football shirts, jog pants, shell suits, sandles and socks of the world seem to have been all imported to the UK for people here to wear. In Europe as a whole they simply don’t appear.

Faced with the thought of a room full of well cut suits, stylish shoes and insouciant Gallic shrugging I feel the need to up my own game.

I wonder if I should buy some Gauloise ? C’est la Vie!