Prise off my flip-flops and leggings, — it’s time for fashion re-entry!

Never mind the election or elton John at the Brits or the desirability of the Co-op’s cider vinegar crisps or how much chewing gum Prince Harry sees on supermarket floors, which is apparently a lot, according to his latest outpourings, making one wonder where he buys his fro-yos and lentils.

Maybe what he is actually seeing is a speckled or patterned linoleum? For Our reluctant Prince grew up with Hanoverian oak and custom-weave Axminster beneath his feet, so perhaps he doesn’t know his sisal grass from his elbow, but we all knew that, what’s new, move on. Because, dear God, I am not writing about Harry this week.

I’ve had enough of him and his banquet of bespoke celebrity problems, including a chief beef about lack of privacy which he has talked about on global Tv with James Corden, then with Oprah Winfrey and now in a 90minute podcast in which he seemed to agree with his interlocutors that yes, limbless orphans in Lesotho had it bad, but at least they had their freedom, unlike his good self.

Today, millions of Americans are trying to find freedom from Harry’s injured tone and his endless complaining, but there just isn’t a rock or a pair of ear muffs big enough.

And if there was, he would soon be tapping on the side, Kevin-the-teenager-style, reminding you that he didn’t ask to be born and certainly didn’t want to be born into a life of malice in the palace, which is why he fled to California for a life of the-me-you-can-see expansion in a mansion instead.

BuT freedom is what I am writing about. Cry freedom, Harry! For once you et moi are in accord on this vital topic. We both need it, we want it, and any minute now we are going to get at least a taste of it as the countdown to a new phase of un-lockdown begins.

Next week friends can be hugged, laps can be swum or sat upon, while restaurants will be flinging open their doors again to welcome customers. This new social frontier is impossibly exciting, but not without its drawbacks — what on earth are we all going to wear?

Smart dressing is a concept that slipped from my un-manicured grasp months ago, leaving only a faint memory of ironed garments, polished shoes and clothes that are not — bear with me — pyjamas.

Is that correct? Some of my friends have already booked in for emergency treatments, including the SrOFL (Surgical removal of Leggings) and various corrective procedures to reduce FFFS (Flip-flop Foot Spread).

Shoes are the big issue. Millions of women have not worn heels for over a year now, and many probably never will again. For after we have thrown off the tyranny of the kitten and the Cuban heel, the wedge, the stiletto and the cocktail spike, is there any going back?

Not so long ago, the lavish shoe wardrobes of characters such as Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) in Sex And The City were the envy of fashionistas everywhere. Now as Louboutins and Jimmy Choos rot silently in cupboards across the world, is it a frivolous step too far to go back to those good old, bad old shoe days?

Perhaps it should be no surprise that ghastly Crocs are already making a comeback, with the comfy rubber clog’s lockdown popularity seeing the company’s revenues climb by over 64 per cent, reaching a record £331 million in sales.

There was even a pair of Crocs on the red carpet at the Oscars recently, albeit worn by a man. And there is the bunion rub. For anyone who fondly thought that women were going to be cut some sartorial slack in the post-pandemic world, forget it.

Look at Angela rayner, the Deputy Leader of the Opposition, who was criticised for being inappropriately dressed for a trip to Hartlepool during the recent election campaign. She wore leopard print trousers, an orange hooded top, a padded jacket and chunky leather boots. What would you call that look, sniffed her critics? Primark Primordial?

And what did she look like — school mum runner, dog walker, duck pond dredger, vote canvasser, door knocker?

I thought Angela looked fine. Tell me, what would have been appropriate for a rain-lashed visit to Hartlepool on a cold spring day in the time of Covid?

Some cheapo, synthetic fibre suit and red block heels from Zara’s Front Bench range? How interesting that despite everything, including a global plague, Angela rayner is still expected to conform to some misbegotten notion of female elegance while her male contemporaries roamed the Teesside riviera in tragic nylon anoraks, and no one said a word about them.

So clearly, the pressure is on. Already I feel out of control, like a spaceship hurtling back towards earth, without the correct accessories to facilitate a stylish atmospheric re-entry.

YeS, I’m going to a restaurant on Monday at lunchtime. Inside an actual restaurant. Not sitting outside, where you can get away with a dressing gown and Wellingtons. And then back to the office to work. Shoes and heels. What am I to do? Have the rules changed? Someone give me a clue, please.

I notice the Duchess of Sussex has been the picture of pandemic elegance in her gorgeous Carolina Herrera and Oscar de la renta silk dresses, costing thousands of pounds each. At her glamorous side, Harry looks like the under-gardener, loafing around in his terrible old socks and suede booties, before doing a bit of dibbling on the avocado patch.

Harry and Meghan, Angela and me. In so many ways we are all in it together in this post-pandemic world, yet so very much not in others.