My killer heels are out to, er, kill me – so why do I keep wearing them?

Do you own a piece of clothing that always lets you down or brings you bad luck? And if so, why is it still haunting your wardrobe?

Just ask the Tasmanian-born Queen Mary of Denmark (yes, we Aussies have our own queen now – and by that I do not mean a contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race). Mary has revealed that she has a hat that invariably blows off every time she wears it.

Photographers feast on this kind of fashion faux pas. So why does she keep popping it atop her cranium? It actually looks more like a satellite dish, so perhaps she’s secretly beaming in Netflix to alleviate the tedium of official functions?

But most women have an item of jinxed clothing that we seem unable to relegate to the Narnia section of our wardrobe. In my case, it’s a pair of 1970s bell-bottoms. Every time I’ve worn these jeans, a sudden wind gust invariably whips one flare around the opposite leg and lassos me. Thus hobbled, I tumble forward and lie floundering on the pavement like a denim mermaid.

You’d think these faceplants would mean that all I’d flare now is a nostril, but no. I’m still wearing them.

I also have a pair of skyscraper shoes that give a very literal meaning to “falling for a guy”. I was once invited to a dinner party to honour Al Pacino. Keen to appear chic and sophisticated, I wore these killer heels. But the razor-thin stiletto kept catching in the thick shag-pile carpet, meaning I had to walk like a dressage horse so as not to fall over. The Hollywood star was already casting dubious looks my way when I suddenly succumbed to gravity and toppled into his lap, flashing a fallopian en route.

It’s the fifth time I’ve lost my balance in them – so why do I keep wearing them?

Clearly, I’m a fashion victim – my cursed clothes are trying to kill me. From my favourite skinny jeans (struggling into a pair once proved so strenuous, I pulled a muscle, lost circulation in my legs, and had to be rushed to hospital) to my cherished crotchet string bikini.

I’m actually amazed that extreme sports enthusiasts haven’t taken up crotchet-string-bikini-wearing as the ultimate risk-taking thrill. Evidently, the sadists who designed such swimwear have never actually studied anatomy, because it’s physically impossible that four teeny triangles can cover anything larger than a freckle. String-bikini pants give “bad hair day” a whole new meaning. Also, as soon as you dive in, the crochet waterlogs and drags you straight to the sea bed. And yet, inexplicably, that bikini is still at the top of my beach bag.

But women have lucky accoutrements, too. If I’m feeling blue, I don my diamante tiara. Nobody can be mean to you when you’re wearing a tiara.

When I was younger, my three flatmates and I shared a lucky black cocktail frock. And, like Mary’s hat, that dress got blown off on a regular basis...

Of course, who cares what Queen Mary wears when she has the most glamorous accessory – a King, draped over her arm. Hats off to you, Mazza!

Kathy Lette’s latest novel, ‘The Revenge Club’, is published by Head of Zeus and is out now