Favourite five: the clothes that are dearest to my heart

Shawl

One of the many things my late aunt Maine gave me in my 20s was a dark-green Italian-made wool-fringed shawl. I loved it. I wore it constantly. One morning, I was first up in the house I shared. It was winter, and dark outside. I turned on the anglepoise lamp at my desk, and headed to the bathroom to shower. When I got out of the shower, I could smell something. Burning. I ran downstairs. Nothing. I ran upstairs. The smell was stronger.

I rushed to my bedroom. There, smouldering under the bulb, was my green wool shawl. It had been folded underneath the lamp. The heat of the bulb had burned neat holes all the way through the folded layers. It was ruined. Until, that is, my genius mother got hold of it with her crochet needle. She crocheted roses in wool that were an exact colour match, and sewed them on over the holes. The result was a shawl even more personal and beautiful than before. I love it more than ever now.

Cowboy boots

Last autumn I visited my friend Julie in California. She was giving a reading in the Steinbeck Centre in Salinas. We had free some time beforehand. She took me to the Boot Barn in Salinas, as I had been searching for a pair of cowboy boots for years. The Boot Barn is a cavernous cathedral of cow leather and Cuban heels. There must have been thousands of pairs of boots in there.

My inner magpie was drawn to a pair of brown and orange boots, with a phoenix bird flaming at the heel and tiny orange diamantes scattered about. They were a hand-made work of Mexican art. They were outrageous. They were gorgeous. They came in my size.

I don’t wear heels. I’ve never wanted a pair of Louboutins or Manolos, but hell, I really wanted these crazy cowboy boots. They were so beautiful and absurd. The savvy sales assistant clinched it for me when she said the boots would wear most people, but I was wearing the boots. I’m not sure what that means, but I haven’t regretted the purchase for a second.

Sweatshirt

In 2008-2009, I spent an inspiring year at Harvard on a Nieman journalism fellowship. Prior to that, I’d never bought a branded item of clothing. I thought they were naff. One by one, at the end of the fellowship year, we all disappeared into the Harvard Co-op and emerged sheepishly with sweatshirts or T-shirts with the Harvard Veritas branding on it.

I bought a black-and-white zip-up cotton sweatshirt with a sporty twist (I am not remotely sporty) courtesy of white stripes on the sleeves. It is certainly naff, but I love it. It’s gone a blackish-grey colour now, it’s been washed so often, and one cuff has had an accident with bleach, but I keep wearing it. Once, when I thought I’d lost it in a taxi, I cried. It’s my favourite thing in my wardrobe; every time I put it on, it reminds me of the best year of my life to date.

Hat

This is the piece of my travel kit that always gets packed first. I bought it years ago in a market in Vietnam, to replace a similar one that had fallen apart. It’s the colour of bleached sand: a cotton, wide-brimmed hat that has protected me from sun in many countries. It squashes into nothing and weighs very little. To me, it’s as exciting as my passport: when I get the hat out, it means I’m heading to an airport, which is my favourite journey in the world.

Vintage dress

This is the item I’ve had longest in my wardrobe: a sleeveless, black wool dress with a diamante starburst on the front. My mother bought in Harvey Nichols in London in the 1960s. She gave it to me when I was a student. It’s a classic A-line 1960s cut, mid-calf length and classic in every sense. Since she gave it to me, it has travelled with me everywhere I’ve lived. I’ve worn it to parties, dinners and countless fancy events.

Whenever I’m not sure what to wear, or when I need armour, I wear this black dress. No matter how I feel about how I look, I know the dress is beautiful. Some time ago, my mother mended – with tiny, tiny black stitches – the frayed edges of the silk gauze panel that contains the diamante starburst. Apart from the silk gauze that frayed over time, the wool fabric is still pretty much perfect: it never bobbled. Not one stone of the diamante has ever come loose, let alone fallen off. I first wore it first when I was 21. I’ll be still wearing it when I’m a very old lady.