"I met an English man/ 'Oh', he said/ Won't you walk up and down my spine?/ It makes me feel strangely alive/ 'In these shoes?/ I doubt you'd survive'/ I said, 'Honey/ Let's do it.'"

I'm a materialistic, consuming, 'buy me pretty things and my life will be better' kind of girl. Of course, I would doubtless be a more worthy person if I toiled away to make the world a better place, but I don't, so I'm not. I care about the cut of bias violet silk that swirls around my legs when I walk; the smooth scent of rose lotion and jaunty angle of an occasional beret.

And this is my anthem.

Because there's a life that's sold to us in glossy magazines dripping in advertorials and new spring collection specials, a life we can't help but be entirely seduced by. Who doesn't gaze at the art director constructed tableaux of style and wish themself into that reality? It's not just the props and costumes you see, but the faked friendship and backlit passion we desire so. (I'm not entirely shallow, you know)

This song is a flickering procession of Vogue-worthy scenes as Kirsty lounges in silk-draped boudoirs and strolls with a jut of hip across bustling market squares. And of course men pant at her spectacular heels, because when you archly respond with such cool derision to their requests, how could they not? I don't know precisely what the beat is, but be it mambo or cha- cha, all that matters is it echoes dancefloor seduction and sultry men who swing and dip you. And I know from experience, that there is nothing better than being spun and dipped.

This is a (dearly departed) woman who can teach a girl many things: to speak softly, and always with droll sarcasm; to travel the world on your own terms; and to wear fabulous shoes at all times.