If you ask me, it is a mistake to ask readers anything, and in future I will refrain from doing so. I gave you your chance, and you blew it, I'm afraid, and I will never give you another, not even if you beg.

I have totted up all your tweets and emails, which were considerable, with regard to my new Clarks Un Gabi winter boots, and can reveal that not only are they grannyish (93 per cent grannyish, by my calculation) but as @rebeccarrr notes, "and so is that ghastly jumper" which made me very sad, because just as I had no idea my boots were grannyish, I had no idea my jumper was ghastly, and now I am both ghastly and grannyish. Do you know how it feels to learn something like this, when you have always thought of yourself as hip and modern and cool? What's next? That my swimsuit with the little skirt attached doesn't kid anyone that I'm not fat under there? That my big zippered fleece just isn't funky? That no one can look good in jeans hoiked up that high?

Why not, in fact, go in for the kill and just stab me through the heart and be done with it? Might as well. You can even stab me through the fleece, as it is a sensational garment to wash, and comes out the machine practically dry (how great is that? Seriously, it's miraculous, and fills me with amazement every time.).

So, where am I meant to go from here, now I know I am grannyish and ghastly, and may be the very embodiment of ghastly grannyishness and grannyish ghastliness? Should I plead with the clothing industry to introduce a grannyishness and ghastliness rating for every item, so that people such as myself, WHO OBVIOUSLY HAVE NO IDEA, can be offered some guidance, and be spared embarrassment?

The only nice comments came via an email from Mrs Kay Pritchard, WHO IS RETIRED, and @ruralcountryman, who thought my boots "trendy", and is a man who is rural and lives in the country, and probably wears tweed and waders, even to bed. Great.

Even @MAseighart came out against my boots – "grannyish, something to do with the soles" – and she's 112! And has been 112 for at least the last four years! (Everyone knows. I don't know why she carries on pretending.)

So I'm devastated. I am, truly, and we are through, you and I, and I suppose I'll just have to stay locked away inside, so as not to cause offence, with only my grannyish boots and my ghastly jumper and my hoiked jeans and camel toe for company. See what you've done? See? Proud of yourselves, are you?