I wear stockings. It’s not a fashion choice, you understand, or a forced kinky feminisation programme by a manic girlfriend, although six stocking-clad legs would be a very impressive fetish. No, without being melodramatic, it is something that I have to do. Yes, the stockings have a colour – American tan – and I’m reliably informed that they are chic at the moment, which is nice. They aren’t on show and fortunately there is no reason to match them with a pair of high heels, but nevertheless, the stockings have to be worn. Why? Well, how can I explain this? Put bluntly, it’s a matter of life or death . . .